ODST: Shattered Glass
by Purple Rookie
Summary: Squad Seven learns firsthand that nothing is permanent, as an old threat from before the Great War looms large again. Takes place two years after the events of Halo 3.
1. Prologue: Reach

**ODST: Shattered Glass**

**PROLOGUE**

**1855 HOURS, 23 November 2554 (UNSC Military Calendar)**

**EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM, PLANET REACH**

Cyrus Lyster pulled the cloth mask over the bottom of his face, obscuring it from the worst of the storm. A macabre mixture of ash, snow and crystal whipped and swirled around him, engaging in an endless howling dance across the seemingly endless flat surface of the planet Reach. A slight incline in front of him was the only landmark visible- Menachite Mountain. But aside from the lone silvery mount, the land around him was all the same- flat and translucent.

It seemed hard to believe that less than three years ago the mighty and indomitable Reach had been the nerve center for the UNSC's campaign against the United Rebel Front and the Covenant Empire. Seven hundred million had inhabited this planet, or so the files had read.

And for a great many of those millions, the world of Reach had become a massive crystalline tomb. It was incredible to think that the husk of the planet had already developed a weather system, and fitting it was- the endless snow and glass fragments buried the remnants of the UNSC presence here just as the new and rising United Independence Coalition- the latest incarnation of the rebels- buried humanity's relief following the conclusion of the Human-Covenant War.

Cyrus shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Taking out a small hand-held communicator, he yelled into it against the sound of the roaring wind.

"Looks all the same here! This whole damn place is a great big chandelier! Let's go already! I said before- this is a waste of time!"

A voice came out of the com unit's speaker, cutting through the wind like Covenant plasma through armor plate.

"Not a chance! You wanna tell command we finked out, be my guest. I'm gonna look until I find somm'in."

"Fine! Meet up at the dip! That's probably our best spot!"

Cyrus pocketed the communicator with some relief. His voice was hoarse from screaming into it all day, and yet all his teammate had to do was speak normally, and he was crystal clear. Cyrus had never figured that one out.

Several hours later, Cyrus stood in what appeared to be a valley of glass. The terrain rose to one side, and rose slightly more sharply to the other. The deeper section of the glass ran in a straight line with the incline to both sides. Cyrus thought of a gargantuan rifling groove.

Slowly, a figure approached. Black against the swirling grey-white snow, Rey Bolt wore the same cold-weather poncho as Cyrus did, marking him out as the only other living thing on the whole damn planet.

The sooner Cyrus could convince Bolt that it was just the two of them, the sooner they could get off this ball of ice.

"You remember the spot?" Rey asked calmly through the turbulence.

"Yeah! Right around here! Test with the reflectors to see! We'll check there and then go! I ain't searching the whole planet!" Cyrus coughed, and then massaged his sore throat.

"Fine!" Rey drew a small device that looked like an obese pistol. The optical reflector shone a beam of light on a surface, and a small light-absorbing panel collected reflected light. A minute data processor did the math.

Rey pointed the reflector at a very specific spot in the ground, giving a thumbs-up gesture two seconds later, satisfied with the reading.

"Yep. It's this spot. You got the charges?"

Cyrus nodded. Pulling out a C-9 high-explosive bomb, he walked over to the spot where the reader had shown the glass was thinnest, flicking the detonator switches as he went. Placing the bomb on the silvery-white ground, he wound the timer up to 10 seconds. Plenty of time to get away.

As the telltale _tick tock_ of the timer resounded in his ears (all despite the biting wind), Cyrus and Rey rushed away from the bomb. You didn't need to be a genius to know what happened if you stood right next to the big _boom_.

The _boom_ itself reminded Cyrus of nothing so much as a hundred amplified gunshots. The cacophony of noise increased rapidly as the glass surface of Reach cracked and crumbled in the spot closest to the explosion. Then came a noise Cyrus had not been expecting. Several dull thuds and cracks resounded, as if the chunks of debris had fallen into something.

Rey was already at the blast site, looking down in abject shock at the scene. The wind seemed oddly quiet to Cyrus' ears.

Looking up, Rey spoke with a voice at once both dumbstruck and curious.

"I think we've blown through a cave roof."

Peering down, Cyrus didn't see much. It was mostly black- but that wasn't anything a little light couldn't fix.

Pulling out a high-powered flashlight, Cyrus flicked the switch and once again looked down into the cave. His jaw dropped.

Mushrooms, some a foot tall by the look of it, grew in colonies across the cave floor and walls. One of the far walls was slick and green with algae and lichen. Growths of moss and fungus littered the cavern floor, with barely a bare patch save where the glass and rock had fallen in.

Cyrus looked up. Rey was looking back at him, just as ecstatic and surprised as he was. The two exchanged a high-five and a brief celebratory hug.

"Yes! Yes!"

"We actually found something! And you wanted to give up!"

"I take that all back, man! We gotta get to the ship and call command! Mission accomplished, Rey. Mission accomplished."

Cyrus looked back into the cavern one last time before turning away and heading back to their adapted _Longsword_-class ship, shaking his head in wonderment all the while.

There was life on Reach.


	2. Chapter 1: At War's End

**CHAPTER I**

**0935 HOURS, 17 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**SOL SYSTEM, PLANET EARTH**

UNSC _Nighthawk_ vanished from normal space, jumping into the mysterious and unpredictable dimension known as Slipspace with nary a hitch. _Nighthawk_ was part of a new line of prowler infiltration ships- faster, better armed, harder to detect, the whole nine yards. These new ships were designed with NavSpecWep insertions in mind, namely the deployment of SPARTANs in Covenant space.

But the Human-Covenant War was over, and every SPARTAN was listed as MIA. And although no-one said it, everyone knew what it meant.

So the newer ships would have to settle for second best, carrying the cream of the UNSC Marine Corps into action against its remaining enemies.

Corporal Kurt Orson "Pyro" Heidler leaned back against the seating of his pod, catching a few non-regulation winks. Things had been positively boring for his unit lately. The rebels of the resurgent UIC were hardly as deadly as the Covenant, and for once, the UNSC forces outnumbered their enemies. He remembered what the Great War had been like- the Covenant seemed to hold every card. They'd had numbers, tech, a singular bloody purpose, physical strength (except for those Grunts) - all that and more on their side. Kurt and every soldier he'd ever been alongside had resisted, fighting tooth and nail and armor-piercing bullet to stop them. It never seemed to be enough.

The humans had won though. And they had the Covenant to thank. Bile rose in his throat every time he considered that Earth would be a smoking ruin if the aliens hadn't fought amongst themselves. It had been a fleet of Covenant Separatists- the Covenant's own version of the URF and the modern UIC- that made final victory possible for the UNSC.

And now the UNSC was to its current enemies what the Covenant had been to it. Such sweet justice. So sweet that it was just plain boring.

'_Well,'_ he thought, '_it's not so bad to be bored'_. He chuckled, remembering something another soldier had once told him. '_Bored is good', _a voice rang out in his head, '_bored means we're not dying'_. Dexter Grif had rarely, if ever, made good points, but that time had definitely an exception. After a small yawn, Kurt closed his eyes again, more firmly this time.

After what seemed like about a minute, he felt a sharp _rap-rap_ against his helmet. Blearily wrenching his eyes open, Pyro gazed into the double faces of John and Jill Silvers. "Jack and Jill", they'd been called earlier, now they were "Etch and Sketch". The sibling duo was something of a legend among the 117th ODST Battalion, having been the only members of their squad to survive their mission to knock out a UIC cell in New York City itself. The two were paraded as heroes by Section Two, ONI's public front- several news channels had even dubbed them 'The New Spartans'. Following transfer orders by Section One to Pyro's squad, the two had had it relatively peaceful in the past few weeks.

There was nothing like a little down time to dowse a public presence.

"ODSTs, listen up!" came a voice with all the intensity of an ONI PR officer- and none of the charm. Master Sergeant Michael 'Sixes' Brakes strode into the room. A six-foot seven figure with close-cropped hair and a perpetually furrowed brow, Sarge was always the center of rumors suggesting that he'd been a SPARTAN program dropout. At 'SPARTAN', the whisperer would usually find themselves with soiled pants. At 'dropout', the individual would typically be looking for cover. Sergeant Brakes was 'Class-A Marine, all the way'.

And no-one questioned it.

The Sergeant strode towards the holographic tactical projector in the middle of the room, helmet under one arm. The helmet was scarred and pitted, with the dirt and mud of three worlds splashed across it- Jericho VII, Reach, and Earth- and painted just above the left temple, for some reason, was a pair of dice. Double sixes, of course. Brakes said it brought him luck.

No-one questioned that, either. Pyro had been with Brakes his whole tenure in the ODSTs. Reach had changed the man. He'd been a sniper rifle before. Now he was a grenade with the pin pulled. Anything could set him off.

"All right, squad, listen up!" he barked as the ODSTs of Squad 7 huddled around the viewer. "HIGHCOM wants some answers, and we'll be givin' 'em. The rebels-" he paused a moment to spit on the floor, a habit he indulged every time the word rebel, Insurrection, or UIC came up. Clearing his throat, he ploughed on. "-they're still raiding ships in the New Pioneer Colonies. ONI wants to know where they're a-comin' from, so here's the plan. We follow 'em to an installation, an' then we hack into their battle net. Once we got the coordinates, FLEETCOM's gonna erase every UIC-" another projectile of spittle made its way to the floor, "-base this side of Mars." He chuckled darkly at the thought.

Squad Seven frowned. The mission made no sense. Jack and Jill piped up first, speaking in their customary form.

"Sir, if we follow them to an installation-"

"-couldn't that just be where they're coming from?"

"Knuckleheads. Don' any of you remember the Cole Protocol? Was a pretty big deal when we were fightin' the uglies. Now imagine you're a public menace- do you run straight to your hideout? No. These guys are wimpy, but crafty. They're gonna be sure to only escape to a place they can afford to lose- not where the Fleet wants to bomb, in other words."

Now that made sense. But there was still one thing, at least to Pyro.

"Um, Sarge? That's great and all, but none of us are cyberwarfare operators- we can't hack." Apparently John and Jill had only just realized this, as they murmured a twin, "Oh…" in assent.

Brakes nodded. "That's why we got backup."

Footsteps broke the momentary silence following Sarge's pronouncement. A figure strode in; wearing what was, without a doubt, the weirdest armor Kurt had ever seen. He'd fought in New Mombasa; he'd seen Master Chief himself fighting the Covenant. This newcomer's armor seemed oddly like that, but it seemed incomplete, somehow; cut-down. The sections missing Spartan armor parts had bits like he'd seen in a history book once as a kid- legionnaire armor- like the Romans wore.

His tongue raced ahead of his brain. "What the heck is that armor?"

The backhand came faster than he ever thought a hand could move. Staggering slightly, he silently thanked the Corps for making the ODST suit armored.

"This, _Marine_, is SPI armor. Navy issue. Lieutenant J. Fehling, Office of Naval Intelligence, Section Three." The voice issuing from the suit's speakers was so ambiguous, Kurt had no idea whether to say 'Sir' or 'Ma'am'- and he did _not_ want to receive another slap.

"Um… Lieutenant? You wouldn't mind removing your helmet, would you? It's just-"

"You may call me either sir or madam, trooper. That should give you a clue."

Pyro gave a curt nod. Some female officers accepted that they be called 'sir'. Calling a male officer 'madam', though, was a surer way of getting in trouble than dancing naked on the command bridge. Not that he'd ever done that.

Brakes reminded everyone of his presence. "All right, people, arm up and prepare to get in the pods. If these swabbies- no offense," he added, throwing a polite nod the ONI lieutenant's way, "know their stuff, we could find a slop bucket any minute now."

'Slop bucket' was Sixes' preferred term for 'rebel ship'. His standards for that were ridiculous. He hadn't said a word about UNSC _Final Onslaught_ during an op on Proxima Hydrae, but when the UIC captured the ship midway through the mission, she immediately became a 'slop bucket'. Pyro sighed- quietly.

Squad 7 strolled over to the weapons racks and took up arms. Everyone picked up an M6 as a back-up weapon- no other weapon failed less during firefights. One shot through someone's face solved most problems.

Sarge and Pyro both grabbed M7S submachine guns. They had all the firepower of the regular M7, but they made slightly less noise than a chirping bird. But the price of silence was, for some bizarre reason, shots fired. The M7 had a 60-round clip. The M7S had 48. Pyro could never understand that. But it got the job done, enough said.

John, a.k.a. Etch, grabbed an SRS99E-S2B sniper rifle. He was certainly the sniping type- he had the steadiest hand and quickest fingers of anyone in the whole battalion. Target practice was almost singularly boring when he was being tested- there was only ever one bullet-hole.

Jill was less the fan of precision. An M-41 rocket launcher soon vacated its rack- as Squad 7 had learned only too many times, the rebels had an annoying habit of using improvised armored vehicles.

The most curious choice was that of the ONI Lieutenant Fehling. She picked up an MA5C. Jack peered at it as if it was glowing purple. "An assault rifle?" he finally asked.

"Hey, trooper, these things work. You try using _that _thing-" she gestured at his sniper rifle, "-in close quarters."

The squad stepped into their pods, with the Navy Lieutenant occupying the pod next to Jack. He was being unusually quiet. Pyro piped up.

"Hey Sarge, so how many of us are being sent on this?"

"Just us five. HIGHCOM wants this op to be hush-hush, so no company here."

Pyro gulped. This was happening more and more lately. ODSTs were normally, at the very least, deployed in platoons or companies, with each squad taking on a single task forming part of the larger operation. But now, with alarming frequency, ODSTs were being sent in on the squad level. Who did Command think they were sending? SPARTANs?

The ship's exterior rattled violently, and their CO's voice boomed over the PA. "Troopers! We found a UIC ship! It just jumped! Recharging Slipspace capacitors now- it could be a while before we get to where that thing was going, but get ready!" Bracing themselves against the briefing table, the squad felt another jolt as _Nighthawk_ transitioned back into Slipspace. As the rumbling of the transition was replaced by an eerie silence, Pyro prepared for the long wait. Maybe he'd catch another few hours of sleep.

Maybe not.


	3. Chapter 2: Semper Vigilans

**CHAPTER II**

**DATE AND TIME UNKNOWN (ESTIMATED TIMESTAMP 1922 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555; UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ON BOARD UNSC **_**NIGHTHAWK**_**, SLIPSPACE WAKE**

A voice boomed out of Squad Seven's com units, shattering the monotony of the last few hours.

"Troopers, the wake's collapsing, and we can't pick up exhaust- we're dropping out soon and you're going in fast and hard! Got it?"

As the squad rushed to their pods, Pyro heard Sixes, his hand to the radio on his helmet, respond. "Sir, yes sir!" The next thing Pyro heard was a resounding _slam_ as his pod door closed.

_ Nighthawk'_s innards jerked once more as she transitioned back to normal space. Pyro was distinctly sure he'd heard a sharp gasp over the ship's PA. And the rest of Squad 7 heard it too.

"What was that?"

"What's wrong- where are we?"

"Sarge- what's going on? Does ONI know anything-?"

"Hey, Marine- shut up. I don't know any more than-"

A booming voice silenced them all.

"Troopers- the rebel ship has exited Slipspace in Epsilon Eridani-" the air seemed to thicken like quick-drying concrete, "planet Reach."

Gasps resounded all around. Pyro whispered to himself… "Reach…" Sarge was going to love this. The UIC had jabbed a stake right into the UNSC's heart. Revenge would be too sweet for words.

A distant _clack_ resounded through the ship as the bolts restraining the ODSTs' SOEIVs were released. As the pods fell from the _Nighthawk's_ belly, a final transmission arrived from the ship.

"All right, Squad 7. Godspeed. See you on the other side."

Pyro hoped that the fabled SPARTAN luck had been passed down to the ODSTs. Every UNSC soldier knew the story. Nineteen SPARTANs had died on Reach. But then again, Squad Seven wouldn't be facing the Covenant.

Maybe that would be enough.

An hour into the drop, a series of sharp _cracks_ and _bangs_ coursed through his pods as the arrester fins popped into play. It was a feature exclusive to the newer SOEIVs- the fins made the pods easier to see, but slowed them down during the final minutes before impact- drastically decreasing impact injuries. In combination with the drag chute featured on all pods, a staggered deployment could make hot drops more survivable up until the moment of impact.

Brakes' voice blared through the squad's radio channels in a hail of static. Squad 7 was being dropped into a snowstorm. "All right, boys and girls! Prepare for impact!"

With a huge jolt and a muffled _thump_, Kurt's pod slammed into the mounds of crystalline snow on Reach's surface, spraying loose snow and glass thirty feet into the air. Two seconds later, a sharp _boom_ sounded as his pod door opened- violently.

Grabbing his M7S, Kurt sprinted from the pod, racing across the icy terrain, not feeling in the slightest bit safe. His black body suit was a dead giveaway against the white of Reach's new landscape. An eighteen-foot pod coalesced in front of him. Half of its fins had shattered and the other half were twisted and bent from impact- this landing had not been a slow one. Its door lay flat on its front twelve feet away.

A slumped form occupied the inside of the pod. A single gold stripe down the helmet betrayed the trooper as Jill Silvers- Sketch. Her rocket launcher was clamped to the side of the pod, and her pistol lay useless in her leg holster. She had to be awakened quickly. A lone unconscious ODST would not be in for a pleasant experience if the rebels came calling.

Several quick slaps later, Jill stirred and shook her head. A reflex of some kind must have kicked in upon seeing a dark stranger after awakening from a blackout, because a fist rocketed into Kurt's face, sending him reeling. Why did every female Squad 7 member feel the need to injure him?

When he looked up, Jill stood there, rocket launcher in hand.

"Well? Are we moving out or what?"

"Oww…"

"Good enough. Let's go."

Stooping only to pick up his M7, Pyro followed Jill into Reach's planet-wide blizzard.

A voice sliced through the noise of the endless windstorm, much like a razor through velvet.

"Pyro! Sketch! Are you there?"

"Yeah, we're here! Where's rendezvous?"

"We found a cave mouth of some sort- we can take cover there! Activating FoF tags now. See you soon."

Three small _beeps_ sounded in Kurt's headset. Pulling up his TACMAP, three green dots flashed around one klick from their location. It wouldn't be that long a walk.

Fifteen short minutes later, Pyro ran up next to Jill in front of a gaping cavern. Had his visor not been active, he wouldn't have spotted the three dark figures standing at its mouth. But his visor highlighted friendly FoF tags in a green outline, making them as clear as he and Jill must have looked against the ice.

Sprinting the last twenty yards into the cave, Pyro started up. "So, what is this place?"

The Lieutenant spoke up. "It's a facility of some sort- those door settings are sure proof. Could be ONI, could be Sector FLEETCOM. I really have no idea."

"No wonder they call you guys spooks…is there anything _reassuring_ you have to say?"

"Hey, smart-mouth, I'm being a realist. You want a rosy picture, paint your visor pink."

As Pyro opened his mouth, Brakes took charge. "All right, all right, break it up. Let's get this op going, for God's sake. Pyro, you and I are on point. Etch, Sketch, form up behind, arrow pattern. Lieutenant-" he paused, glancing down at the assault rifle, "what's your specialty?"

"Recon." Even as she said it, Fehling faded from view as her armor seemed to drink in every photon of light that hit it. After a second, all that remained was an ever-so-slight heat haze.

"No. We're not splitting the squad. Without you, we might as well detonate grenades in our pants- you're our only way onto the rebels'-" he removed his helmet, and spat yet again, "- onto their datanet. You're our rearguard," he finished, popping his helmet back on.

The heat shimmer seemed to tense- apparently ONI was not used to having Marines issue orders to its operatives. But after a brief silence, the Lieutenant's invisible form relaxed, and a resigned voice sounded on all their com units. "Fine."

Squad Seven took up their formation and advanced into the tunnels. Five helmet headlights clicked on, slicing through the otherwise impenetrable darkness. As they progressed further, Fehling's pronouncement became more and more apparent. The natural rock and minerals became more and more regular, being cut instead of left to their natural forms. And then- the final transition. The tunnel's walls became the metal walls of an underground corridor. One partially opened sliding door bore an engraved inscription-

"Semper vigilans… ever watchful…" came the voice from the Lieutenant's unseen form. "This- this place is an ONI base, no doubt about it."

A sigh of relief escaped John. "Well, at least we know where we are." When the rest of them looked at him, puzzled, he kept going. "Oh come on, ONI is Office of Naval Intelligence, right? Right…?" He stopped for a moment, racking his memory. Deciding that his recollections were not at fault, he resumed. "Well, wouldn't they have computer terminals and shit? I mean, this is _Reach_, guys. I'm sure they'd have a major base down here. Their AI might even be active."

All heads turned Fehling's way. She simply shrugged.

"He's got a point. ONI did have a few big bases here- CASTLE base was the famous one. And Reach did fall in 2552- it's only been three years. AIs work for around seven, so it's possible that this base's AI might still be functional."

"All right, let's get moving then."

The squad kept going, moving down hallway after hallway. There'd been a UNSC presence here all right. Empty weapon racks, collapsed doors and scaffolds, and smashed computer terminals littered their path. Soon, they reached a dead end- save for one door.

"So, anyone want to bet the power still works?"

"Shut up Sketch, and put those tubes of yours to use."

"Sure thing, boss."

Jill crouched and took aim. The rest of the squad fell back around five feet and braced themselves.

The rocket rammed straight into the door, detonating with a thunderous _boom_ and shattering the doors, sending them into the next room. They fell back into the next room, and just kept falling and falling.

"Elevator," John stated matter-of-factly.

"Why did I get assigned to the _ONLY_ ODST squad with four smart mouths…?" the Lieutenant mused.

"Luck of the draw," John declared, strapping away his sniper rifle and drawing his pistol as he strode over to the elevator and peered down. "Cable's intact, sir."

"Alright, squad. We're descending one level, see what we can find. Down we go."

John went down first, gripping the cable with his knees and sliding himself down with one hand as his remaining limb kept his pistol trained downwards. His sister soon followed. Brakes went next.

Fehling looked to the shaft. "Well?"

"Ladies first, Lieutenant."

"No, you go- I'll cover you."

"What is it with you Navy people? First the SPARTANs, now you. Do any swabbies not have acting death wishes? Fine- have it your way."

Pyro reached out to the cable, grasping it firmly. With his knees as brakes, he slid, steadily, down a single floor. Pushing against the shaft wall, he released the cable, tumbling into the next room unceremoniously.

"Smooth. Where's the spook?"

"Right behind me."

They wouldn't have known Fehling had joined them but for the telltale swinging of the descent cable.

"Lieutenant, could you please show yourself? You're creeping us out."

Silently, the Navy soldier faded into view.

"All right, let's find a terminal or something. We're traveling blind here… what's up?"

The Lieutenant was glancing around, evidently looking for something. She found it. Following her lights, the squad found words stencil-painted onto the walls: SUB-LEVEL 5.

"AI projector room…" she muttered. Then, at a full sprint, she dashed thirty yards straight down the corridor and rounded a left turn. The squad tore after her in pursuit. "Weapons trained!" roared the Sergeant as the squad hastened to keep up.

Entering the first room on the left, they saw the Lieutenant removing several objects from her pack and dusting- an intact computer terminal. Plugging something into the computer, she flicked a duo of switches, and the screen flickered to life. A voice spoke.

"Welcome to ONI CASTLE Base. Please identify yourself."

The squad exchanged significant looks. They had found the UNSC's most heavily fortified Special Operations base on Reach- out of commission.


	4. Chapter 3: Castle Base

**CHAPTER III**

**2215 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (REVISED TIMESTAMP; UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"Lieutenant Jessica Fehling, Office of Naval Intelligence, Section Three."

"Voiceprint confirmed. Clearance code: Epimetheus. Access permitted to Priority Four documents and below."

"Shit," the Lieutenant muttered. "Fat lot of good P4 does us."

"Can't you hack the system?"

"I could sure try, but I hope there isn't an AI on this system- if there is, there's no chance. Only one person has ever hacked through an AI's security coding, and it wasn't me."

The team grew more and more agitated, watching the Lieutenant at work, letting minute by silent minute slip by. Fehling's fingers flew across the keyboard, making a sound akin to Mexican maracas as they struck the keys. Then finally-

"Protocol script accepted. Welcome, Admiral Hood. Clearance code: Jupiter. Access permitted to all Office of Naval Intelligence records."

Jessica Fehling pumped a fist. "Yes! Now let's see…"

Brakes strode over. "This thing will accept any voice key now?"

"It should."

"Computer- what AIs have been active on this system?"

"Scanning…found. UNSC M/CLAI ID CTN-4597/0241. Common name: Kalmiya. Attached to Section Three civilian liaison Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Halsey."

Every eye in the room widened behind polarized faceplates. The personal AI of the legendary Doctor Halsey had been the last AI on this computer system.

"Computer- activate AI retrieval process."

"Negative, exposure of Riemann crystal matrix to beta radiation has caused irrevocable data corruption- retrieval impossible."

"Damn it!" Brakes and Fehling exclaimed in unison. Brakes, though, went the extra step of pounding the keyboard once with a fist.

"Sergeant! We need the terminal active if we're to find our way around."

Brakes was unapologetic. Fehling simply sighed.

"All right, all com sets on, transmitting installation map data…now."

A green bar popped into place on the left edge of Pyro's visor, slowly filling, second by second. After around half a minute, a metallic voice chimed, "Download complete."

"Good. Now the base's layout should be part of your TACMAP as long as you're in CASTLE base. Now we can find out if anyone's…" she broke off abruptly.

"What is it?" the other four asked in unison.

"Sublevel Five, Area 6-B" a blank voice replied.

Several images flashed across Kurt's visor, finally zooming in on the overhead map of Sublevel 5. On the map legend, Area 6-B was listed: SPARTAN-II ARMORY.

"ODSTs, we have a new priority. We have to get to that armory NOW. If the rebels got their hands on any SPARTAN tech, we're in real deep shit."

"All right, troopers, you heard her! Weapons up and eyes open! Let's go!"

Squad Seven raced through the subterranean tunnels of CASTLE Base at a full sprint. Kurt's heart pounded in his ears despite his ragged breathing as he put one foot ahead of the other with his eyes trained down the rudimentary scope of his M7. ODSTs Squad Seven might be, but if the rebels had gotten their hands on SPARTAN armor, they would be in for one _hell_ of a fight.

They arrived outside an otherwise completely nondescript door, but every person present knew better. The Sergeant put away his SMG, drew his pistol, and extended three fingers from his left hand. He then coiled them one by one- _3…2…1…_

Invisible, the Lieutenant kicked the door clean off its hinges as the squad burst into the room, a weapon pointed at each and every corner.

The room was huge- thirty seven-foot lockers stood side-by-side, doors shut tight. A dozen crates were stacked neatly at the back of the room- some open, some shut.

"Shit… they already took something…"

"Is it possible that UNSC soldiers took any of it?"

"SPARTAN Blue Team returned to Earth with some experimental tech- maybe some of it came from here. But we can't assume that this is the case. Thinking the rebels are more dangerous than they are is better than assuming they're harmless. I'll need to run inventory in the computer system- see just what was taken." Fehling bent over to examine some of the crates.

Brakes piped up again.

"All right. Etch, keep watch and- what's up with you?"

John ran up the line of lockers, peering into the metal grilles at face level. Ignoring the Sergeant, he stepped right up to the Lieutenant.

"The SPARTANs- they'd leave their armor in here when they weren't using it, right?"

"Yes, _Corporal_. But all those SPARTANs were MI-" she paused, and then sighed wearily, "killed- killed in action. The only things that should still be in there are their older suits- Mark IV. They were wearing the Mark V during the battle."

Pyro pulled up Etch's BIOCOM on a hunch. Sure enough, his blood pressure had just spiked, and the solute level in his bloodstream fell steadily- as if he was sweating. Profusely.

"So those lockers shouldn't be empty?"

"What are you getting at, trooper?"

"There's nothing in them- not armor, weapons, power packs- nothing, sir. It's all gone."

The ramifications did not need to be discussed. Thirty suits of MJOLNIR Mark IV armor were in the hands of rebel forces.

A full minute of silence ensued.

"Troopers," came the Sergeant's voice, the same as always- and yet different, "let's go. We've still got another mission." He traipsed from the room, his gait slumped and slow. Pyro understood it as well as he knew what was pouring from his heart like water from a broken pipe- hope was leaving him. At the very least, the four ODSTs and one ONI soldier would have to fight their way past thirty rebels in SPARTAN armor. The SPARTANs had faced thousands of Covenant troops on Reach's surface- hopeless odds.

This was beyond that. The rebels would be wearing armor less powerful than that of the Spartans, but they outnumbered the squad six to one. This wasn't a fight. It was suicide.

Pyro broke the ice.

"C'mon guys, Sarge is right."

And with that, Squad Seven walked from the room.

Only one of them seemed to still have their heart in the mission. Fehling strode with purpose- the rest of Squad Seven seemed content to just amble around.

"Pathetic. What the hell's wrong with you four? The Covenant attack and you're all raring to go- a few rebels commandeer derelict MJOLNIR armor and you mope? Get a grip!"

The four ODSTs just stared at her. Of course she wouldn't panic. ONI had been known for pulling every damn stunt in the book, and then writing new ones, just to survive another day. SPARTAN-II was proof enough.

The Lieutenant shook her head. "Pathetic…" was all she said before the five kept moving. They entered a storage corridor. Crates and sealed containers littered the room. The UNSC had definitely left CASTLE Base in a hurry.

Oblivious to the slight _patter _behind them, Squad Seven continued on the route to its doomed mission.


	5. Chapter 4: A Surprise in Wait

**CHAPTER IV**

**2240 HOURS 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

A series of rapid _clack-clacks_ resounded behind Squad Seven, scattering the five of them. Despair replaced by adrenaline-induced alertness, the squad opened up with their own weapons. Pyro and Sixes sent a hail of SMG fire down the corridor, striking three rebels across the face and chest and sending them to the floor in bloody heaps. Etch and Sketch were slower but just as deadly, sending pinpoint shots into heads and arms with their pistols. But the rebels didn't just give in. The dozen or so left opened up on full auto, and Pyro ducked to avoid filling his helmet with lead.

Etch wasn't so fast. As he took cover, three shots connected. One pinged off his titanium-ceramic shoulder piece, but two slipped past his arm guards and penetrated, sending a small spray of crimson to the floor. Sixes punished the rebels for it with a frag grenade- it fell a foot short, but the _bang _and ensuing smoke gave the ODSTs time to duck.

Fehling went into action. Firing her MA5C even as she did so, her armor went into camouflage mode, turning her into little more than a shimmer, with only the occasional muzzle flash to tell the rebels where she was as she killed them. But on the ODSTs' visors, she was as easy to see as if she'd been painted bright pink- her FoF tag marked her as a green outline to their visored eyes. Aiming carefully, Squad Seven picked off several of the rebels as Fehling closed in.

Not even bothering to shoot, the lieutenant got to work. She snapped necks, broke bones, and generally reduced the rebels to bloody pulps before the half-dozen she'd taken down even realized their time was up. Disengaging her camouflage, she put her hands on her hips to survey the work. The floor had gone from steel grey to blood red.

A dull series of _thuds_ dispelled all triumph for the squad. Turning his headlight up to maximal intensity, Pyro peered down the corridor. There appeared to be nothing there.

Better be sure he had a full clip in case there was someone. Brakes, noticing him, nodded. "All right, folks, reload, and make it quick." The ODSTs turned to their weapons and began replacing spent ammo clips, a process that the well-accustomed troopers could complete in around two seconds.

That was too long. As each squad member glanced down at their weapon, a brown-green form rushed out from behind a large shipping container, an MA5 in its hands. It opened fire just as Squad Seven were inserting new clips. The shots pinged twice off Lieutenant Fehling's SPI armor, but the next four met flesh in her thigh, penetrating the muscle as the air went red from blood spray. The grey-green suit stained as crimson blood and her armor's silver-blue nanocrystal shock absorbers spilled from four small wounds. Squad Seven went up immediately and unleashed hell. Lead rounds bounced and scattered off their assailant's MJOLNIR suit, although a lucky shot did catch in a gap in the faux-Spartan's armor, wounding the shoulder. As he winced, Fehling made her move.

Turning invisible except for a few patches of red and silver-blue that now seemed to float in mid-air, she flat-out sprinted to her adversary, and as the rest of Squad Seven broke off fire to avoid hitting her, she delivered a solid roundhouse punch to the Spartan impostor's faceplate, knocking him off balance, and then following with a double-handed blow from down low, hitting his head up and exposing the chin, to which she promptly connected another punch. She was relentless, hammering in blow after blow to the head and face. As she delivered a sharp slam to the top of his head, which brought his face down to hip level, she brought her foot up, landing a kick with a resounding _smack_. The faux-Spartan stumbled backwards, and Fehling closed in.

The fight wasn't over yet. As Fehling limped in to finish the job, her opponent lunged at the patch of red and blue in mid-air, catching her off guard. The MJOLNIR Mk. IV weighed half a ton. She was bowled to the ground, and the MJOLNIR's occupant delivered a sharp punch to her faceplate. He then lifted her by the neck with one hand into the air as he stood.

A resounding _CRACK_ filled the room as a hole appeared in the MJOLNIR's helmet. The faceplate cracked and cratered, and a spray of red escaped the back of the helmet as a sniper round made its exit. Their Spartan-wannabe opponent collapsed to the ground with a sniper wound to the face- a death no UNSC SPARTAN-II had ever suffered.

Etch stood motionless, his SRS99E still smoking. "I guess smoking really does kill…" he quipped, and the five of them chuckled, old though the joke was.

"Did we just…?"

"Yeah, we did, Marine. Told you those suits were no big deal."

"But- I fought alongside the Chief- I saw him at New Mombasa- where were the shields on that thing? Don't Spartan suits have them?"

"Only MJOLNIR Mk. V and later are equipped with energy shields- something the rebels apparently don't care about. Well, now that that's over, we keep moving." Fehling began to walk, all the while attempting to conceal a limp.

"Lieutenant- your leg. You need to get that treated-"

"I suppose you're right- but we can't waste time. We still- _ungh_!" Her faced clenched in pain as her leg gave way, sending her to the floor. Squad Seven was there in seconds. Sketch unstrapped a can of Biofoam from her pack. "Now relax, Lieutenant- this could hurt a bit." She inserted the tip of the canister into an injection port- most UNSC combat suits had small holes in them for the pure purpose of applying the medical composite.

"I'm a soldier, Lance-Corporal. I'm no stranger to pain." She winced as the Biofoam went to work. A rumor going around the fleet went that Biofoam worked by breaking you down and then putting you back together. It certainly seemed that way. Fehling's skin and muscle felt like it was being stripped from the bone- with a blunt machete. She attempted to stand- and collapsed immediately. White lights flashed across her field of vision as her brain reminded her of the pain her body was in. More tentatively this time, she righted herself, and gingerly began to walk.

Jill glanced at the rest of the squad. The four of them exchanged nods, and then followed the now-healing lieutenant.

The five of them knelt among the corpses, taking everything they could- ammo, grenades, spare rations, and a paper map.

"B-I-N-G-O," said Etch in a singsong voice as he pried the map from the breast pocket of a dead soldier. "Hey guys- I'm thinking we found the way to Treasure Island." As the rest of the squad came over, he handed the piece of paper to the Sergeant.

"Well I'll be- it looks like they know this place inside and out. Explains why they got patrols going 'round this place. Well, more for us…" he chuckled, cracking his knuckles to emphasize the point. Etch, Sketch and Pyro all stared at him- he'd taken up spitting in order to break the knuckle cracking habit- he hadn't cracked his knuckles since the op on Guam, back during the Covenant War.

Things must have been about to get really interesting.

Squad Seven prepared to move out, still somewhat fazed by their all-too-easy defeat of the stranger in SPARTAN gear. SPARTAN-II had been a Navy Special Weapons program; so naturally, all eyes went to the lieutenant, whose limp became less and less apparent as the Biofoam did its thing.

For once, Brakes started the line of thought. "Lieutenant, sir?"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"How come you were able to pound on that rebel-" he spat yet again, "in that armor? It looked too easy."

There was a soft _crackle_ as Fehling's faceplate depolarized. She wore a wide, wide smile.

"It's something the rebels had to do to keep the suit's wearer alive in the armor. Ironically that's how we won…" she let out a soft chuckle. "The suit's electronics suite links directly into the wearer's nervous system, in short giving your brain the ability to instantly call up any of the armor's systems. It's like the neural link-up all UNSC personnel have, only a generation more advanced in a dozen ways. Unfortunately, the suit is basically Hercules on a hair trigger- trying to run in that thing with regular human reflexes would break half a dozen bones before you could so much as slow down."

The squad paused at this point, checking in every direction to ensure they weren't being followed again. As they swept the rooms, Fehling continued to explain. "The SPARTANs also have their own integrated neural matrix like all UNSC personnel, but added to that is a hyper-conductor lining their nervous system, which was meant to improve their reaction times. That it did, but it also improved the uptake pace of info to their heads from the suit, allowing them to fine-tune their movements as they made them. It also helps that they're a hell of a lot more durable than the average human."

The squad now stood deathly still, held in perfect rapture by the revelations. Never had the ODSTs' greatest Spec. Ops rivals, the SPARTANs, been described to them in such stark relief. All the same, it started to sting. The biggest reason- the ONLY reason- that the Spartans were so good was because they got the chances that the ODSTs never did. Given the same enhancements and the same armor, Pyro was as sure as anything that the ODSTs would be just as good as the Spartans had been. Better? Maybe not. But all the same, he felt robbed. Pyro locked down his resentment and spoke. "Keep going…" he said in a small voice.

"Well, the rebels don't have the augmentations, so they'd have to remove the integrators or else everyone who got in those suits would rip themselves to pieces. I'm guessing that's what they did. That's why his reflexes were human- if that had been a Spartan, I wouldn't have a spine right now. And you guys would be lying in heaps."

A stunned silence followed the lieutenant's analysis. Once again, Pyro spoke.

"Whoa."

"My, aren't we articulate today?"

That snapped Squad Seven from its semi-torpor. "All right- we got to find where those scum came from," Brakes ventured. "Any ideas? What's that map say?"

The paper almost shone as five high-intensity lights cast white beams into it.

"It looks like… like their patrol route goes into- into this big round room- definitely doesn't look like something we'd build- not under this mountain, anyway."

"Well, it's a start. Troopers, move out!"

In arrow formation, Squad Seven made out for the large room indicated on the dead rebel's map.

They made good time considering the precautions they'd had to take- they had to avoid being seen at any cost. They'd taken down one of the rebels' stolen MJOLNIR suits, true- but there was no way they'd be able to fight twenty or more. Finally, after evading a dozen patrols, each of at least half a dozen men, they arrived at a small balcony overlooking a huge room. It was obvious that this room had once been exposed to the open air- flakes of snow and crystal still lay here and there on the floor. But the rebels had put a roof over this place and cleaned up- now, the lower tiers were swarming with men and women. At the center of the humdrum stood five figures, eerily still against the hustle and bustle of those around them.

Being careful to only expose as little of himself as possible, John put his eyes to the scope of his sniper rifle and peered down at the eye of the storm.

"Yep," he relayed back, "five more of the stolen suits. Six… seven… there are two more there… and four over there. Holy shit. We got ourselves thirteen Spartan-wannabes plus the one we iced."

"We, trooper?"

"Fine… the one _I_ iced."

"Wha-"

"Hey- did you shoot him through the eyes? I don't think so."

The lieutenant looked stern even through her faceplate. But Etch was unapologetic.

"So, anyone got a plan? I can't snipe 'em all- I'd get maybe two, three tops before they bring eight kinds of hell down on us with their little toy."

"Toy, Corporal?"

"Take a look," he offered, handing over his sniper rifle to the ONI operative, "ten o'clock and around forty degrees down."

Jessica Fehling was rarely surprised. This was definitely a rare occasion. "Shit… the sniper's right- we can't fight them from up here."

The other three ODSTs said in unison, "What is it?"

"They've salvaged an Mark 9X."

Pyro felt his face go cold. A prototype aerial/low-orbit defense weapon, the Mark 9X Skyhammer was a mass launcher, utilizing the same principles as the Navy's Magnetic Accelerator Cannons, only on a much, much smaller scale. All the same, a two-ton projectile moving at over five hundred times the speed of sound would have the punch of a small nuclear warhead- not quite enough to level a city, but in the enclosed space of the CASTLE facility... In short, by the time Squad Seven thought of an appropriate swear word, their chance to use it would be gone.

"Okay, troops. Here's the situation- I'll bet you anything that they've got their computers down at the bottom of all those tiers. We got a Skyhammer mass launcher they can use, and a dozen of their best excuses for Spartans. We gotta get to those computers and hold them back long enough for the Lieutenant to do her thing."

Etch choked- but it sounded ever so slightly like a laugh. Fehling smacked the ODST across the helmet, and he rose in anger.

"What the hell was that for?"

"NO! Etch! They'll see you!" cried Pyro as he lunged, knocking Etch to the ground and out of sight.

Too late. Several rebels had spotted a figure in matte-black armor standing around nine tiers up, and they raised the alarm accordingly. All hell was about to break loose.


	6. Chapter 5: Trading Blows

**CHAPTER V**

**2320 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"Damn it! I'm out! Reloading now- cover me!" cried Etch as he finished off the last round in his rifle's clip.

"Keep moving! Do it as you run! We stop and they'll bring a million pounds of shit down on our heads!" snapped the Sergeant, all the while letting loose a hail of supersonic lead into the lower levels.

Pyro didn't exactly feel like telling the sergeant that even a million _tons_ of dung would not hurt nearly as much as six hundred tons of tungsten-uranium alloy. Then again, he probably wouldn't have said it even if he hadn't been trying to pick off rebels with controlled bursts from his M7.

They sprinted another thirty meters, with Sixes, Pyro and Lieutenant Fehling firing all the while. Etch turned on his heel and let off three shots from his sniper rifle in rapid succession. Two of the figures in stolen MJOLNIR armor crumpled, their heads resting in growing pools of blood.

Bullets whizzed up towards Squad Seven, ricocheting off the ledges and missing them by mere inches, connecting on numerous instances. But more often than not, the armored ODST Body Suits repelled the shots.

But the battle had begun to take its toll. Pyro crouched to reload again, wincing as his ribs- bruised from a round that had hit him square in his armored chestplate- ached up a storm. Blood coursed from his shaking left hand- he tore up eight inches of emergency bandaging from a pouch on his belt and wound them tight around the wound. More complete treatment would have to wait. Kurt rose to the ledge- only to see a rocket, high-explosive nose and all, rush towards the edge of his level. He scrambled and dove.

The pressure wave catapulted the ODST into the wall that dropped down from the level above them. Shaking his head groggily, he looked up. Brakes and Fehling stood at the ledge, sending hell down into the lower levels at seven hundred rounds per minute. Etch crouched to their right, with only his sniper rifle barrel poking over the edge. Despite this apparent handicap, he loosed a handful of shots into the throng below, before adjusting his scope and stopping to reload. To his left, Sketch sent a rocket down into the attackers' midst. Kurt took the screams and dull _thuds_ to mean she had not missed.

Struggling to his feet, Pyro tripped on something. Looking down, he saw an M319 grenade launcher. He took a moment to look around, noticing as he did so that the level his team was on held over a dozen racks, holding hundreds upon hundreds of weapons. Lifting the grenade launcher, he stepped slowly to the ledge, crouching to remain hidden.

Brakes glanced over, saw the launcher, and nodded approvingly.

Pyro aimed and fired. The small cylindrical projectile seemed to move in slow motion, arcing ever so slowly down into the levels below- directly on course towards ammunition crates around three tiers down.

The downwards arc caused the projectile to land just to the front of the crates, but it was enough. The heat and force forced open the crates and ignited gunpowder and explosives. It looked almost as though someone had set off a nuke down there. The roaring flames and waves of concussive force raced across the layer as crates and machinery ignited, their power sources only adding to the ferocity of the blast.

After a good ten seconds of carnage, the rebels regained their bearings and prepared to reengage the UNSC troops. But the devastation had given the ODSTs the chance to slip away without the rebels noticing. Now Squad Seven hurried around the deeper corridors of CASTLE Base, hoping not to run into anyone.

"Great. _That_ much more to do…" Pyro snapped.

"Can it, trooper. We are _not_ giving up, however hard this gets. I don't fraggin' care if the rebels have _Hunters_ on their side- we are finishing this op. Capiche?"

"Yeah, yeah Sarge- but do you got a plan? 'Cause I sure as hell don't have the ammo to shoot everything between here and the computer terminals."

"Well if someone hadn't blown up half the rebels' ammo stocks, we might not have that problem, would we?" At this point, Etch and Sketch exchanged a glance. Sarge had forgotten to spit. The shit they were in must have been a mile deep.

"Yeah, because there's _tons_ of other ways to kill a shitload of men with a single shot, isn't that right?"  
"You will watch your mouth, Corporal, or-"

"Get ready to move out."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. You will watch your mouth or else get ready to-" Brakes halted mid-rant as he digested the Lieutenant's words. "What?"

"The corporal's right. There _aren't_ a hundred ways you can take out a dozen men with a single shot- but we do have one."

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, what the _hell_ are you talkin' about?"

"The rebels will provide for us. We get to that mass launcher and we'll be able to blow our way straight to the computer terminals. Either that or we'll cause the biggest diversion ever conceived."

Pyro, for one, did not relish the thought of another firefight- especially one where they would sacrifice the high ground.

"Lieutenant, do you have any other plans- preferably ones that leave _some_ of us alive?"

Fehling replied with a fist to his side. As his bruised ribs screamed at him, Kurt felt his eyes water and a pained groan escape his lips.

"Apparently not…" he said as his legs buckled.

"Get up and quit wastin' time, Pyro. In lieu of plans that will leave some of us alive, we'll go with the spook's plan for now." Brakes adjusted the grip on his M7. "ODSTs, lock and load!"

As Squad Seven did a final spot check on their gear, Brakes decided on one last attempt to get them ready for what seemed a kamikaze mission. He waited until every clip, locking bolt and buckle was in place.

"Troopers! We got ass just waitin' to get kicked, and I don' feel like keepin' my boot down. Squad, move out!"

And Squad Seven did just that. Pyro's stomach churned as he strode with his squad towards a full-blown firefight, one that would pit five of the UNSC's best against an army of pissed-off rebels. And yet, a small voice in his head declared, _this is what it's all about_. ODSTs were an all-volunteer force, and many were of the opinion that you had to be more than a little crazy to want to drop hundreds of kilometers and then fight your way through hundreds or thousands of enemies. Maybe Pyro was crazy. He'd volunteered to join four and a half years ago, and he'd made the cut, going on to fight Covenant warriors, Flood parasites and rebel troops on a dozen different worlds.

He may not have loved every moment in the armored matte-black outfit, but he sure as hell wouldn't have given up a single second in the ODSTs for anything. "This _is_ what it's about", he murmured to himself.

"What'd you say, Pyro?"

"Nothing, sir. Just wondering how much boot a rebel backside can take."

"Atta boy, Pyro. I guess we're about to find out. Lopsided odds,a base chock-full of targets. Seems almost like the day we met, eh?"

Pyro paused, lost in thought.


	7. Chapter 6: Meet the Helljumpers

**CHAPTER VI**

**0730 HOURS, 30 JUNE 2549 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE INSTALLATION "HAWK'S NEST" DRACO III COLONY, LAMBDA DRACONIS SYSTEM**

**ALMOST SIX YEARS AGO**

"Damn it! These guys just won't- fraggin'- die!" Private Kurt Heidler grunted as he reloaded his MA5B for the fifth time in what seemed like seconds. The hulking form of a Covenant Hunter lowered its own weapon, a massive blue-silver fuel rod cannon that seemed melded to its arm, aimed, and fired. The explosion tore through the debris stacked as makeshift barricades, scattering the hundred- pound crates and metal plates like leaves in a tornado. Three UNSC Marines took shrapnel straight to the chest and face, slumping lifeless to the ground almost immediately. The four survivors, Kurt among them, beat a hasty retreat further down the corridor. As they ran, they passed the prone form of another Hunter, this one riddled with bullets and not so much leaking as pouring orange blood from several dozen wounds to its vulnerable midsection. As Echo Company of the 2nd Marine Espeditionary Regiment had learned to their detriment, killing this one had brought the other one running.

Another green beam came screaming towards the squad, and this time it struck gold. Staff Sergeant Aaron Paine was a veteran of the Jericho VII and Proxima Aquarii campaigns, with over three hundred Covenant kills on his record. He was six months over mandatory retirement age, and intended to finally retire next month, before his age rendered him ineffective in combat. After half a second of blinding green light; all that remained of the grizzled old-timer was half a helmet, covered in melted black polymer. The entire remnant of Echo Company, all three of them, stared in blank shock at all that remained of their NCO.

Kurt's visage twisted. No-one, not a Hunter, not the 'Prophets' of the Covenant, not even Jesus Christ himself vaporized their sergeant and got away with it. He turned on his heel and charged. As a green glow suffused the fuel rod cannon, he sidestepped the Hunter and jumped. Another green beam raced down the corridor, but Kurt didn't care. Hanging onto the Hunter's shoulder, he aimed and fired his rifle, one-handed, into the unarmored neck of his thirteen-foot foe. The MA5B jerked like mad, sending only a handful of rounds into the Hunter's exposed tissue before jumping straight out of Kurt's hands. Undaunted, his hands moved to the M6D pistol in the holster on his thigh. The massive Covenant warrior turned and thrashed, sending one of its shoulder-spikes straight through his left forearm. Smiling through the pain, Kurt saw the irony of the situation. In trying to throw him off, the Hunter had just anchored Kurt right onto it.

Up came the M6. Kurt fired for all he was worth, sending twelve lead slugs at supersonic speed straight into the orange flesh of the now-irate Hunter. Another massive thrash sent Kurt straight into the wall with a huge _slam_, dazing him. Even as he tried clearing his head, the armored Covenant fighter rounded on him. His forearm began to bleed profusely. As he began praying to the Man Upstairs, a hail of tracer rounds rocketed into the Hunter's armor and shield as Itake Hazachi and Greg Reese unloaded their rifles at the thing. The Hunter, deciding for some reason that a bleeding and half-conscious marine was a lesser threat than two fully-armed and angry ones, turned to face them with its shield in place. Dozens of rounds pinged and puckered off the shield. Sooner or later the two Marines would run out of ammo, and the Hunter would _not_ need a second chance.

As Kurt desperately rose, a horizontal rain of white-hot lead slammed into the Hunter's back. Convulsing and twisting, the considerable mass of the Hunter careened backwards. Had Kurt not sidestepped the Hunter again for the second time in a minute, the spikes would have punctured a lot more than a forearm. Standing half-dazed, Kurt was thus only half-aware that a semi-solid substance enveloped his left arm.

It all came to him a second later. A lance of pain coursed through his arm- if the Hunter had shot it off, the pain might have been comparable. Glancing down, he saw the grey-white Biofoam encasing his hand hardening, which would reduce the movement of shattered bones and help expedite recovery. Turning half-closed eyes to his left, he saw a strange sight indeed. Shaking himself awake, he turned to the newcomers as Greg and Itake joined him.

"Who are you guys?"

The one leading the three black-clad strangers spoke. "Command calls us Oscar Delta Sierra Tango. I like 'Helljumper', myself."

The Marines' jaws dropped. Standing in front of them were three _bona fide_ Orbital Drop Shock Troopers- the ass-kickers supreme of the UNSC Marine Corps. "Helljumpers… oh man…"

"Yeah. Anyway, FLEETCOM is sending us as mail boys. We got evac orders for every UNSC base this side of the moon. The fight's turning ugly."

A dull _boom_ resounded throughout the Hawk's Nest, accompanied by a vibration that unsteadied the six soldiers. As all eyes turned to the nearest viewscreen, Kurt saw two dozen exhaust trails behind a barrage of missiles, which struck the ship that had been hovering over the base for the last hour.

"Doesn't look like it, hellboy."

A voice came through on all com sets present and jarred Kurt to his bones.

"All units on the ground, this is General Kits. All UNSC Marine personnel evacuate immediately- Covenant ships have breached the orbital perimeter, and have begun glassing operations on the Shai subcontinent. Unless you want the deepest tan of your life, get out of there!"

The ODST leader turned to Kurt. "You were saying?"

"Shut up, fancypants."

"Charming. And it's 'sir' to you. Sergeant Michael Brakes, 105th ODST Division."

"We call him 'Sixes'," the second of the ODSTs piped up. Brakes rounded on him.

"Hey Kirk, cut the chatter. You heard the good General- we gotta exfil ASAP."

And with that, the six troops sprinted like mad for the Pelican bays. If the Covenant shot the baseapart before they got out… Kurt didn't know what would be worse, being incinerated by plasma, being crushed by melting concrete, or suffocating to death as fires stole the air.

As they ran, Kurt spotted a cylindrical orange grenade next to the corpse of a Covenant soldier vaguely resembling an ape. Gut-wrenching fear overtaken for a single moment by curiosity, he snatched it up and continued to run. Brakes, in the meantime, was practically shrieking into his comlink.

"SIESER! We need pickup at the North entrance now! MOVE THAT BIRD OF YOURS!"

Whatever miracles the Covenant had pulled out of its collective hats did not help their retreating troops. As the motley band of Marines rounded a corner, they ran into a group of Covenant heading at full sprint in the other direction. Neither side hesitated. The two Elites in the Covenant squad raised their plasma rifles and let loose a storm of white liquid fire, as the three Grunts immediately charged the human soldiers. The two Jackals in the crew stood protectively in front of the Elites, with their shield-gauntlets shielding them- and their superiors- from the hostile fire.

It took six bullets to down the Grunts, but as the plasma and needles from the surviving four Covenant troops came along, the human group of six was trimmed down. Greg took a needle straight through one eye, collapsing in a wordless, horror-filled scream. The third of the ODSTs, the one who had not spoken during the ODSTs' and Echo Company's conversation, was hit by a half-dozen plasma bolts. The blue-white plasma, heated to thousands of degrees, seared straight through his titanium alloy chestplate. The ODST collapsed without firing another shot.

Pyro hurled the small orange grenade into the center of the Covenant formation, and almost regretted it. Almost. The fire leaped is all directions like a rabid dog, covering the Jackals and Elites is a flaming golden shell. Their shields useless, the Covenant soldiers tried desperately to put themselves out, relenting only as they met their fiery ends. A brief silence followed.

The ODST Sergeant seemed appreciative. "Nice job, Pyro. Hadn't thought of using torches."

"Pyro? My name's Kurt, sir. Private Kurt Heidler."

"What kinda name is that? Nah- you're Pyro now- you sure as hell just proved it."

The ONI installation shuddered once again, but this time, no missiles were involved. Glowing purple beams lanced from the trio of Covenant ships now overhead and swallowed swathes of the armored structure like a lion- a titanic, flaming, metal-and-concrete-eating lion. Gusts of wind swept through the narrow corridor, and it wasn't cold wind.

"Come on, let's MOVE IT!"

The next few minutes were a blur. The makeshift squad ran from room to room, not stopping as the station began shaking itself to bits. Traversing a final doorway, the four sprinted into a Pelican- the one Brakes had called for, presumably- and screamed into the cockpit, "GO! GO! GO! For the love of God, take off!" The pilot turned back, smiling.

"You boys get out okay?"

"Goddamit, Sieser, don't DO that… you creep us out, man…" was all the ODST Kirk could say.

"All right. One-way ticket outta hell comin' right up. Hey- where's Charlie?"

The other ODSTs remained silent, and the pilot's face fell.

"Damn… I liked him best. Can't you keep anyone alive, Brakes?"

"I'd like that ticket outta hell first."

That seemed to spark something in several distracted memories. "Right. Next stop- somewhere not exploding." As the Pelican cleared the hangar bay, Kurt could have sworn he heard Sieser mutter, "I hope."

Once the Pelican was clear of the atmosphere, Sieser threw a question out. "So, who are you two?"

Itake piped up first. "Itake Hazachi- they call me 'Bell'," he paused, looking at the pilot's frown, "used to be a spotter for the 151st." he added as explanation, which seemed to clear Sieser's expression.

"So what about you, kid?"

Kurt cleared his throat, wiped a little doubt from his mind, and spoke up. "Kurt Heidler- they call me 'Pyro'."

"Hmm- not bad, although if I didn't know better I'd say Sixes gave you the nickname."

Pyro decided not to speak.

The Pelican- Tango 557, as it turned out- landed haphazardly in the docking bay of the UNSC _Aegis Fate_- one of the few ships that had managed to escape annihilation by the Covenant. As a voice rang out across the PA announcing they were leaving the system, the passengers of Tango 556, Kurt and Itake notwithstanding, walked over to a large window with a view planetside, joining dozens of others who did so. Curious, the two Marines followed suit.

Kirk's and Brakes' faces were masks. "This is what they do," Brakes said quietly as Kurt approached. "This is what happens to every planet that the Covenant comes to. This- this is how much they hate us."

Weaving through the shattered debris of the obliterated UNSC fleet, the Covenant frigates and destroyers unleashed a blinding deluge of plasma blasts down to Draco's surface. The ground glowed orange, then white, then finally took on a silvery glasslike sheen. Oceans flash-boiled, exposing the bedrock beneath the planet. Clouds parted and mountain ranges were blasted apart. The great ice caps at Draco's poles did not merely melt- instead; they were vaporized by the plasma in seconds. Another UNSC world, home to millions and a precious seed of life in a barren galaxy, was now a cinder.

Through a choked throat, Kurt asked, "Why are they doing this? What's the cause of all this? What did we ever do to them?"

Brakes' face might as well have been a tombstone, and his voice made Kurt's insides seem to freeze, even as Draco III burned.

"We exist."


	8. Chapter 7: The Meaning of Loss

**CHAPTER VII**

**2330 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Squad Seven advanced down the corridors of CASTLE Base, making slightly less noise than an urgent whisper. Every few minutes or so, a rebel would come down the corridor their way, but with a sharp _pip_, he would fall without another noise. But the slow erosion of rebel manpower would pose its own problem- one didn't need to be a genius to know what a trail of bodies meant. That went double for rebel bases, and triple for rebel bases with ODSTs inside.

Pyro halted. "For the love of God, can't we just blow the whole place to hell and go somewhere else? Somewhere where the rebels DON'T have a dozen Spartan suits?"

Brakes did not even slow. "You know, that's a _fantastic_ idea, Pyro. Maybe you'd like to paint a big _SHOOT RIGHT HERE_ sign on all of our asses while you're at it? Believe me, if the rebels don't take the hint, HIGHCOM will. So shut up." He'd forgotten to spit. Again.

Pyro grumbled, but started moving again- as usual, Sarge had a point. He hated that.

After a few more minutes of silent travel, the squad halted abruptly. Etch and Sketch, coming in behind the rest, actually collided with Pyro, unaware of what the others had seen.

"What the- did you- oh, shit."

Standing in front of them were two more of the rebels in stolen MJOLNIR Mk. IV armor. One of them spoke into a communicator. "This is 007. We've found them. Engaging."

Twin _BOOMs_ sounded through the corridor. Fehling's camouflage was foiled immediately as two dozen metal slugs punctured her SPI suit. What was once a ripple was now a human-shaped silver-red splash pattern. She was visible. She opened fire with her assault rifle immediately, seeing no reason to try hiding. Squad Seven quickly followed suit.

The sheer number of rounds impacting the rebels made their MJOLNIR armor meaningless. After roughly three seconds, each bled from a round half-dozen exposed wounds shot with pinpoint accuracy from M6 pistols and M7S SMGs. And the worst hadn't begun yet.

Fehling reached the first of the injured rebels. Fully aware that she'd outfought one, Pyro charged forward to take the second one out- she could take care of the first one no problem.

Pyro barreled headlong into his opponent, knocking the rebel over. As he unholstered his M6, he heard a _crack_ and a sharp pressure at the back of his head, immediately followed by a blow to his midsection which launched him clean off his opponent. He scrambled desperately forward to close with the rebel again- there would be no point in trying to avoid the shotgun. His only chance was not giving his opponent a chance to shoot.

Practically climbing up his opponent's front, Pyro grabbed at a long groove running down the MJOLNIR armor's chestplate and hauled himself up. As he did so, he pumped his free fist straight up, delivering a wicked uppercut which left the Insurrectionist staggering and off balance- with his chin exposed. In an instant, five soft _pips_ sounded as Pyro unloaded the rest of his M6's clip into the rebel's skull through his exposed jaw.

Lieutenant Fehling was nowhere near as graceful. She was battering the living hell out of the lone survivor, raining blow after blow into the MJOLNIR suit, which was already sporting a dozen cracks in the chest and shoulder plates alone. Using the butt of her rifle, she delivered a knockout blow to the head, downing the unfortunate Insurrectionist. Even as he fell, the MA5C twisted in her hands as she fired a slew of rounds into the unfortunate rebel's skull. But she wasn't through yet. Crouching on one knee over her victim's prone corpse, she tore off the MJOLNIR suit's armored front and emptied the rest of her clip straight into the rebel's chest, spraying red all over her own armor.

Squad Seven stood agape and aghast at the scene. Never had they seen the Lieutenant- or _anyone_ in the Navy- even SPARTANs- finish an opponent so brutally.

No-one spoke for a good minute. The tension was a vice, constricting Pyro's windpipe minute by minute, delaying time and again mental suggestions that the squad keep moving. In a move that was becoming more and more frequent, Sarge broke the ice.

"Lieutenant?"

Fehling looked up in a fashion not unlike someone who'd just come out of a trance. She gazed for a moment at her own chesplate, seeming mesmerized by the sight of the blood all over her armor. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to the squad. "I'm sorry- what?"

"Are you all right?"

"Get moving." Pyro agreed with the Lieutenant's order- standing over two downed MJOLNIR suits was practically asking for trouble from the survivors.

The squad began moving down stairs- with the rebels in control of the base, the elevators could become death traps for them.

"All right- we've got to go down three levels and reach that mass launcher first. Then we-" Brakes was interrupted by automatic weapons fire. Well used to the event, Squad Seven took cover behind the railings and returned fire- until they heard a sound- a low tone which got progressively higher and higher. In the split second it began, Pyro was struck by a feeling of maddening familiarity- he knew what it was- why the _hell_ couldn't he place it?

Etch did, though. "Spartan Laser!" he roared as a red light- a targeting beam- flickered on the staircases. Squad Seven dove from cover.

A brilliant red beam the width of Pyro's fist made short work of the staircase, blowing straight through its concrete base and sending a ton of debris straight into the lower levels of what was left of Castle Base. Pyro rolled into a crouch, firing all the while, and the rebel troopers fell one by one as Squad Seven summarily dispatched their remaining opponents.

The rumbling continued, taking more and more of the structure behind them down below. Pyro ran for all he was worth, weaving and dodging the cracks that blossomed across the floor just as chunks dislocated themselves from the ceiling. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the base stopped shaking. His heart hammering in his ears, Pyro slowly stood.

The air was thick with dust and heavy with silence. Pyro was reminded forcibly of an old move, _cliché_ by every standard in existence. _It's quiet… too quiet_. Pyro rose. "Squad Seven, sound off."

'Etch here.'

'This is Sketch.'

"Where's Sarge? And where's the Lieutenant?"

Silence hung over the room like a shroud. Pyro, Etch and Sketch looked towards where the collapsed stairway had once stood. It was gone altogether- even the floor around it had fallen in. Pyro's heart sank like a stone. Not content to simply stop in his midsection, he felt a hollow pang from his chest to his foot and gulped.

"Sarge? Sarge come in, repeat- come in Sarge! Come in goddamit!"

Silence. The part of him that was Pyro shrinking second by second, he pulled up TEAMBIO. Both readings were absent. Pyro blinked- dead soldiers usually flatlined. Absent readings typically meant pulverization. He gulped as myriad images and sounds flashed from his memory, reminding him of another dreadful day…

_UNSC Iron Raven turned from the debris field of the Battle of Reach, joining the half-dozen other ships which limped away from the Fleet's most catastrophic defeat ever. Reach was gone. For many who remained, it seemed a sure thing- Earth would be next._

_Kurt sat with his back to the Pelican Delta 244. A lump formed in his throat as he tried to digest the thought that had stewed in everyone's heads for the past hour. Reach was gone. 700 million people, all dead. Attempting to distract himself, he pulled off his helmet and cycled through its systems. All Marines were trained in basic maintenance- he might as well exercise the training._

_Screens popped up on his display as he pulsed the active systems- TACMAP, TEAMCOM, SYSDIAG, TEAMBIO- he stopped. Itake was fine. All of Sheenan's lines were flat. Corporal Metzer's were gone. Not a single green blip. He'd been wiped, just as if he'd never been there. It seemed almost impossible- he'd fought alongside these men in the ODST for years- how could they just vanish?_

"_You okay?"_

_Sergeant Brakes sat next to Pyro. Glancing at the TEAMBIO pop-up on Kurt's HUD, he sighed. "That happens with Hunters. Fries the circuits, so there's no reading at all. I'm sorry about that."_

_Pyro looked up, eyebrows raised. "You're awfully composed."_

_Brakes shrugged. When Pyro looked at him, he sighed. "Sorry- worst I ever saw was- our captain back when I was in the regular Marines was hit by one. Arms and legs burned to stumps- chest went as black as coal. Poor bastard- got hit twice- first hit didn't really finish him…"_

_Pyro gaped, not sure whether to comfort the man or throw up. A man in a Navy uniform walked up to the pair of them. "Sergeant Michael Brakes?"_

_Kurt and Brakes looked up._

"_That's me- whatcha got?"_

"_This arrived for you."_

_Brakes patted Kurt on the shoulder, then handed him a small metal flask. "A little bit goes a long way," he said, smiling. As Kurt took it, Brakes nodded his buzz-cut head. "Just take it easy- you'll be okay. Being a soldier means being willing to put yourself on the line. I'll bet your sergeant knew that."_

_Kurt nodded numbly. No words would bring everyone who'd died in this war back. Brakes stood up and walked away a short distance._

_Kurt gulped down a sip from the flask. It felt like someone started a small fire inside his brain- warmth began to seep into his head, slowly banishing the feelings of numbness. But it coincided with a sudden and steady increase in the hollow knots filling his chest. Sighing, he set the flask down and made a mental note. _Whiskey does not work for the blues. _The blues? He never even used that phrase… Maybe it really did work._

"_No…"_

_Kurt glanced over at Brakes. The ODST was staring wide-eyed at the datapad in his hand, growing more and more frantic with every line he read._

"_No… No. No, no, no. No! NO! NOOO!"_

_ Kurt got to his feet, eyes wide open. Brakes stood, arms now hanging limply at his side. His shoulders began to heave. Then, with a dry racking sob, he sank to his knees, shaking almost uncontrollably. Sobs resounded through the hangar bay, and as Marines, Navy personnel and ODSTs started to turn towards the source of the sound, Kurt stared at Brakes, aghast at the sight of the trooper's breakdown._

"_What's going on?" a voice cried out. Kirk approached the drama. Seeming truly sorry at the turn of events, the Navy officer turned to him._

"_Sergeant Brakes' family was among a group of refugees from Ariel colony. Their transport touched down on Reach four days ago, in New Alexandria, just before the Covenant hit the city."_

_Kirk stood agape in horror. "But didn't you evacuate civilians? There's still-"_

_The petty officer shook his head. "We saved everyone we could. But with everything that went on, there was no way to account for everybody. The casualty figures are still coming in."_

_Kirk's face seemed to boil, going bright red. The PO was unmoved. His face had gone from sorrowful to mask-like - sentiment had not been a factor in this decision. Without another word, he walked away._

_ As Brakes' sobbing began to subside, Kurt bit his lip- the hollow space in his chest seemed to have grown in the last few minutes._

"Good bye, Sarge." Pyro whispered. He then straightened and went over to the rest of the squad. "You guys okay?"

"Yeah. Nothing serious."

"Good. We lost Sarge and the Lieutenant. So here's the new plan- we blow this place to hell and get out. Without an hacking specialist we're done. Get ready to move out."

Etch and Sketch nodded. There was nothing jovial about them. Even Etch, ever the wiseacre, said nothing, seeming almost grim behind his dark gray faceplate. Without another word, the remnants of Squad Seven inspected their equipment and moved on.

As they went, Pyro looked back. _No, not Pyro_, a small voice inside him said.

Kurt looked back.


	9. Chapter 8: Hybrid

**CHAPTER VIII**

**2340 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

The explosion ripped through the corridor, blowing a dozen rebel troops right out of the realm of the living- and onto the platform where the scavenged mass launcher gun was. Three Orbital Drop Shock Troopers walked steadily along the corridor, picking off anyone foolish enough to show themselves. But their progress would have to be halted- and the rebels made sure that was so. Five Insurrectionists, each in a MJOLNIR Mk. IV suit, clambered over the balconies to the platform, quickly positioning themselves between the ODSTs and the mass launcher. Kurt's gut seemed to plummet- they were outnumbered and outgunned- there was no way his ODST Body Suit would hold together long enough before Squad Seven took all five suits out. But they had to try. They had nothing to lose.

"Even the odds!" he roared as the rebels unholstered M7 SMGs and MA5B rifles. At once, four things happened.

A sharp _bang_ sounded out from Kurt's left, coinciding magnificently with a dark hole that suddenly appeared in one of the MJOLNIR helmets' faceplates. The rebel fell without another movement. The four survivors momentarily turned to observe their fallen comrade, taking a single moment too long. A rocket cleared the barrel of its SPNKr launcher with a _whoop_ and reached its target a mere twenty feet away in under a second. The resulting detonation was- unexpected, to say the least.

The first _boom_ was expected of a rocket- its explosive payload exploding as it attempted to puncture armor plate. The blast sent the rebel a clear six feet into the air, scars and gashes torn into his armor, from which leaked a white light. There was a high-pitched _hiss_ as something- gas, Kurt thought, escaped from the armor's dozen holes. And then it all went _boom _again.

Something in the armor was set off. The air in front of Kurt seared with a white radiance, flooding his retinas even through his polarized visor. Then, with an ear-splitting _BLAM_, the MJOLNIR's micro-fusion pods, the source of the suit's power, went critical, sending an overpressure wave of superheated air towards Kurt. Even as he turned on his heel, he knew it was no good. The blast picked him clean off the ground and hurled him against the wall, along with Etch and Sketch. With a bone-jarring _crack_, the front of his chestplate shattered into three, and he slumped to the ground with the grace of an oversized slug. And then he felt something.

Air. Moving against his skin. His eyes widened. Had the blast been _that_ powerful? Getting up- slowly- he inspected his body armor. Sure enough, patches of his armor had been either sheared or burned away completely, exposing his jumpsuit- and, in some cases- his skin. He glanced at the very spot the stolen MJOLNIR suits had stood only seconds ago. His jaw dropped.

Four suits lay smoking on the surface of the platform- they'd survived the blast. But it was a sure bet their wearers hadn't. Drawing his M6 sidearm, Kurt cautiously stepped over to one of the downed suits and pried off the helmet. His insides heaved as his eyes met the sight, and he jerked his own helmet off as quickly as he could. A spectacular projectile of vomit flew, almost in slow motion, from his mouth- straight into the helmet he'd just pulled off the dead rebel. Panting slightly, he set the rebel's helmet down and pulled his own back on. A hollow feeling permeated his center- although that was no mystery. Picking up his dropped M6, he turned back to the dead rebel.

A charred stump was where the soldier's head should have been. The blast had concussed Squad Seven over twenty feet away, but the ignition of the fusion pods had roasted and flash-vaporized the rebels _inside_ the virtually indestructible armor. Kurt smiled to himself- this meant the armor had survived- scorch marks aside, that was. Crouching by one suit- one with its helmet on- he clicked the pressure seals on the MJOLNIR, which were not so different from the seals on the ODST Body Suits, and all troops were trained in basic equipment maintenance. Removing the heavy chestplate from the dead rebel, Kurt removed the clasps and seals on his own chest armor, setting the piece down, eyes wide.

An eight-inch diagonal crack ran across the chestplate, and the bottom part of the plate had fallen away completely. A voice in his head spoke up again- _That was one hell of a blast_- Kurt did not disagree. Hefting the MJOLNIR's chestpiece, he secured it to his own armor with his suit's clasps and pressure seals. He proceeded to dismantle the MJOLNIR armor piece by piece, replacing his chestplate, a shoulder guard and a gauntlet with parts from the cannibalized suit. He stood up several minutes later looking bizarre indeed, and it certainly didn't help that the MJOLNIR suits were built for humans that were almost two meters tall- his chestplate felt like a table. He walked over to the rest of Squad Seven and pulled up TEAMBIO. Both were steady, but from the looks of it they were out cold. He kneeled down to wake them. Etch woke up quickly, jumping to his feet and drawing his M6 immediately. He did a double take when he saw Kurt in the hybrid armor, staring in disbelief for almost a minute, before Kurt snapped him out of it. "That blast blew most of my armor to hell- I had to improvise." Etch nodded slowly, then picked up his sniper rifle and went to inspect the M9X. Kurt turned to Sketch.

Kurt reached out and rapped sharply on her visor several times. When nothing happened, he gave the side of her helmet a series of slaps. Her head stirred- a good sign. She looked up at him, and sprang into motion. A very tiny part of Kurt knew what was about to happen.

An armored fist slammed into his visor. Kurt staggered backwards, shaking his head as tiny green lights popped in and out of his field of vision. That was it. "Do you ALWAYS have to do that every time I do you a favor?"

"You want to do me a favor, don't stand over me when you make me up. It's a reflex- I can't help it."

Kurt shook his head. "All right- keep watch while I fire the Mark 9. Then power up the long-range com and try to get _Nighthawk_ to pick us up." Etch and Sketch both nodded. Hoisting their weapons, they strode over to the entrances to the platform, each being sure to aim a kick at the fallen rebels as they went. Kurt walked over to the mass launcher and looked it over. This mission, in its disastrous entirety, would be over soon.

He hoped so, anyway.

Leaning over the control panels, he spotted readouts for a dozen different variables: coil temperature, alignment, power, focus- all that and more. He reached for the directional controls. With a grinding screech, the gun shifted across and downwards- directly into the heart of ONI's Castle Base. He half-guessed his ways across the controls, sighing with relief as the attached generator hummed to life and a small metallic voice chimed out, "Charging…" Kurt held his breath- he'd hyperventilate otherwise from the tension.

"We got company!" Etch yelled from behind him as the cannon slowly charged. Turning, Kurt saw five rebels in full adapted MJOLNIR armor approaching, at the head of what looked like fifty rebels in regular body armor. His breath deserted him.

Disregarding the fact that the cannon was still charging, Kurt spun on his heel and brought his hand- now clenched as a fist- down as hard as he could.

Right onto the 'Fire' button.


	10. Chapter 9: A Hawk's Eye View

**CHAPTER IX**

**2346 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**UNSC **_**NIGHTHAWK,**_** IN HIGH ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Captain Theodore Weller sighed as he glanced once again at the crew manning their posts at the com station. Close to the end of the Human-Covenant War, Chimera Shipbuilding Ltd. - the contractor for the _Revenant_ class prowler- had included broad-spectrum transmission jamming equipment on their prototypes, and then implemented it into their production vessels. Prowlers were the worst ships to go into combat with- their only real defensive measure was remaining undetected. The jammer was meant to serve precisely that purpose- if an enemy vessel somehow detected them, the least a _Revenant_ could do was make sure it didn't bring along any more friends while it deployed the prowler's classic ace-in-the-hole – nuclear mines.

_Nighthawk_ had been in orbit for over two hours, making sure that no long-range transmissions got off-planet. The only thing that would be able to reach _Nighthawk _herself was a long-range selective frequency transmission from Squad Seven. It had been boring, of that there was no doubt, but Captain Weller infinitely preferred sitting in space bored to death than playing 'First to Die' going head-to-head against Covenant warships. Out of his graduating class at the Academy, seven of the original eighty-one were still alive, and only one of those deaths had been due to something other than Covenant ship-to-ship fire. As Theodore had later learned, it had been ground combat against the Covenant.

The quiet of Reach's night was disrupted by blaring klaxons from the bridge's sensor deck. Lieutenant Commander Roy Kagabe, another of the final seven of Weller's class, gave a quick report.

"Sir! We're getting an EM reading from the surface. It's faint, sir, but it's still there."

Weller scratched his chin. ONI had insisted that the squad carry a Fury-class tactical nuke with them in case the op went sour, but then suddenly changed its mind, and the nuke was never supplied. The faintness of the signal was easily explained- Reach's new perpetual blizzard would be able to dampen the readings from a Shiva-class warhead without much trouble, let alone a Fury. So what was the reading? Weller bit his lip for a good minute, then finally opened his mouth and spoke.

"Stop the jam for sixty seconds and run full-spectrum scans. I want every residual reading we can pick up."

"Sir, yes sir!"

Weller sank back into his thoughts. If Squad Seven had found a rebel base, it was entirely possible that they'd used nukes they found at the rebel base. But there was no way to be sure, even if Reach wasn't a giant snowflake. There were just too many variables.

Sixty seconds came and went in silence. Kagabe looked up from his post and back towards the Captain.

"Nothing, sir. Not even heat blooms- it isn't a nuke."

Reluctant as he was to agree, Weller nodded. A nuclear warhead would have raised the surface temperature, even by a little, and the radiological sensors would have gone crazy. But there had been nothing. If so, what had caused that pulse?

Unfortunately, there was no time to find out. The sensor alarms blared louder than ever, and the bridge's clinical white lighting faded and turned red as the ship's power configuration switched from Scout to Combat.

Weller stood straight as an arrow. Turning his full attention to the sensor crew, he said, in what he hoped was his most commanding voice, "What's going on?" Even though he tried to inject confidence into the question, he still felt it sounded nervous, like he was a small child whose home had been broken into. Hopefully it wouldn't show.

Kagabe didn't even glance at the panels of instruments. "We're detecting Slipspace ruptures, sir. Entry vector matches interstellar space- whatever's coming, they're running from something. We really shouldn't-"

Whatever the LC's recommendation would have been, Weller never found out, because at that exact moment, fourteen holes in space tore through the darkness of the void, shortly followed by no fewer than fourteen ships. The captain's jaw dropped- not one of these ships bore a UNSC emblem or used UNSC frequencies. _Nighthawk _was drifting along in the wake of a rebel fleet. Kylie Steel, a Warrant Officer who'd graduated only last year, echoed the captain's sentiments. "How… how'd they build all those?"

Weller looked around at the fleet that surrounded them on every side. Not one of them was a stolen UNSC vessel. They shared common design features- they were, after all, still human ships- but aside from that, these new ships were completely different in appearance to anything the UNSC built. The warning alarms flashed and blared again.

"Sir, we've got another rupture in the area- Cherenkov radiation's off the scale, sir! The newcomers have nukes with them!"

Weller seemed unable to swallow, and sweat gathered on his forehead like morning dew on a meadow- _Nighthawk_ could not remain hidden forever with elevated background radiation- sooner or later her hull would light up, and then she'd be toast. The captain took a breath and crossed his fingers.

"Set burn for forty percent and maneuver us _carefully_ out of their wake. Charge up the Slipspace capacitors and get ready to run like hell if we have to."

"Sir, what about Squad Seven?"

"They're ODSTs. They'll be all right." At this, some of the crew members looked unsurely at each other, and Theodore didn't blame them- the squad would be stuck on a glassed over snowstorm with an army of pissed-off rebels and a hostile fleet to contend with. If _Nighthawk_ had to jump, the squad was toast.

The alarms blared yet again, louder than ever this time.

"It's the same signal as before! Cherenkov radiation's doing bungee jumps here- whoever they are, they've got more nukes that a cat has lives…"

Weller bit his lip. If the incoming ships were rebels, they could consider themselves lucky if nine nukes were all the enemy had.

But before Weller could say his prayers, blue-black ruptures split the infinite sky again, and seven warships hurtled through the micro-vortexes into real space. Weller's heart soared- the cavalry had arrived. There were the familiar engine layouts and lines of UNSC frigates and destroyers, and the bulky 'flying brick' shape of a UNSC _Marathon_-class cruiser. Most rousing of all was the massive figure of a four kilometer-long UNSC supercarrier. Weller let out a long, deep sigh. They wouldn't die. Not just yet, at any rate.

Smiling slightly, he sat back down in the captain's seat. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, we've got some explaining to do. Open a channel to the flagship of the UNSC group- we have to tell them that we're here, and why. Keep us dark, though- the rebels won't need a second excuse to blow us to bits."

Orran Yeats, the Lieutenant at the com station, snapped to attention. "Sir, yes sir." He opened a channel with practiced ease. "This is UNSC prowler _Nighthawk_, ship ID 4409-6773, hailing UNSC flagship. Repeat, this is UNSC prowler _Nighthawk_, ship ID 4409-6773, hailing UNSC flagship."

The response was quick and crisp.

"_Nighthawk, _this is UNSC _Acheron_. Admiral Mores wants to know, and I quote, 'what the hell' you're doing here."

Weller's heart was caught in a vice grip. UNSC _Acheron_, originally UNSC _Sahara_, had escaped the Battle of Reach with three intact decks and a single functioning auxiliary engine- she'd been rebuilt almost from the ground up. Refitted, retooled and renamed _Acheron_, she had then been placed under the command of Rear Admiral Maya 'Gutspike' Mores, who was, in Weller's opinion, either the most gung-ho or the most insane officer in the Fleet- it was sometimes hard to tell.

The now-anxious captain spoke loudly into the com. "We're here as part of an insertion for Operation: CLEANUP. We have a squad of ODSTs groundside and we'll need calm if we're to pick 'em up later. So ask the R.A. pretty please with sugar and whipped cream on top if we can stay in the system."

The silence was nothing short of bone-chilling, and all the while the rebels were likely regrouping while the UNSC battle group milled about. At last, after a mind-numbing ten seconds, _Acheron'_s com officer spoke again.

"All right, she says okay, but on the condition that you 'don't get in the way'."

"Trust me, that won't be a problem."

"All right, that's all from the Admiral. _Acheron _out."

Lieutenant Yeats then killed the channel.

"Well?" he said, turning to Weller. "Orders, sir?"

Weller cleared his throat. "Keep us dark and take us to ELO altitude. Prep weapons just in case things go badly or someone gets nosy."

The officers at the weapons station, headed by Second Lieutenant Alda Wingate, looked at each other nervously. _Nighthawk_ might be better-armed than previous classes of prowlers, but she was still undergunned compared to the average destroyer or frigate. The only thing she had that could really hit hard was her arsenal of two dozen Hornet nuclear mines- and those had to be carefully deployed and armed, not just tossed.

_Nighthawk _drifted slowly away from the UNSC fleet and made for a position at Reach's northern pole, so her jammer would still catch any surface-to-space transmissions, and she'd be able to assess how the battle in space was going in case the two fleets went around in circles. But Weller wasn't chancing it. He turned to Kagabe.

"Set up a channel- narrow band, point-to-point. Get a fix on Squad Seven and prepare to send a message."

Kagabe nodded.

There were several minutes of silence as the crew worked to isolate Squad Seven's IFF signals. Meanwhile, the northern pole of Reach expanded into full view, but Weller did not have eyes for that view. An expanded TACMAP display showed the UNSC ships completing their first half-orbit of Reach, and it also showed the rebel ships. The UIC fleet did not continue to flee from _Acheron_ and her battlegroup, but had turned around. The two groups were going to hit each other head on.

Captain Weller closed his eyes and made a small crossing motion with two of his fingers. He tapped the side of his right shoulder, and then moved his hand over to his left. He then touched his forehead then drew his arm straight down to his abdomen, upon which he opened his eyes and released his hands from the gesture.

"Lord," he whispered, "deliver them all."


	11. Chapter 10: Shifting

**CHAPTER X**

**2346 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

The two-ton metal slug screamed through the air at over one hundred times the speed of sound. Undercharged though its flight had been, it was not something to be toyed with. The gargantuan projectile tore into the heart of Castle Base, ripping through concrete, stone and titanium-steel girders like a flaming scythe through wheat. Ignoring even the bottom floor of the room, the metal shell smashed its way deeper into rock. The end of its journey was marked by a shudder that moved through the rock like a ghost. Closer to the bottom level, though, the rock cracked and buckled, the force generated being too much for the stone to take. Between the mass launcher and its spent ordnance was a massive round tunnel that bored straight through over a dozen decks and floors and in some cases through solid granite- areas where Castle Base had not extended.

Kurt looked up from the dozen rebel corpses that lay at Squad Seven's feet and mouthed a low whistle. The gun had performed even better than he'd imagined- not only was the center of the rebel base taken out, but the shot's near-instantaneous conclusion had taken several dozen rebel troopers with it. But Kurt did not have eyes for what was left of Castle Base- the slug's destination caught his eye, though.

Cracks were branching from the impact site of the colossal cylinder, weaving and criss-crossing across the floor of the cavernous space. What was more, these were not static cracks, which would be caused if the Skyhammer round had finally impacted the very bottom of the base, with only rock underneath. The cracks grew, and as Squad Seven watched, the 'floor' began to collapse. Small pieces of stone and concrete fell down into whatever was down there, and after several minutes, shards that had originally belonged to the metal slug had done the same, landing on the surface below with a huge _clang_.

Kurt sighed in relief. At least whatever was down there had a bottom- ODSTs might drop from great heights into a combat zone, but they always landed- and fought- on the ground. According to the layout schematics Lieutenant Fehling had downloaded to their visors, the slug had just fallen through the bottom level of Castle Base proper. If that was true- what was down there?

Kurt turned to Etch and Sketch. "What's the ammo count?" he asked, fearing the worst. The squad had been in near-continuous fighting for almost an hour- enough to run anyone's ammo low.

Sketch checked her gear, and then gave a quick report. "Got half a dozen rockets left, but I'm out for the HC." She holstered her empty M6 and went to inspect the dead rebels for a usable weapon. Kurt turned to Etch. The sniper shook his head slightly, then tossed his spent sniper rifle and pistol down to the ground. Kurt checked his own weapons as Etch went to search the rebel corpses as well. He swore under his breath.

He had three clips left for his M7S- about a hundred and fifty rounds, enough if he got into a pickle. But his M6 pistol, like everyone else's, had run dry, and he had no spare clips for the magnum. Sighing, he walked over the bodies of the rebels in search for magnum clips- one of the Misriah Armories Company's smarter decisions had been to make all clips for M6 pistols interchangeable, no matter the clip size or the actual model of the pistol itself. Thus, every M6, from the sleek M6A to the clunky M6D to the ODSTs' jet-black silenced M6C, could all use magazines that fitted each other.

Ten minutes later, Kurt stood up, reasonably pleased with his haul. He'd appropriated a motley collection of 6, 8 and 12-round magazines for his M6G- but the important thing was that they all worked- and they were all full. He'd also found another half dozen submachine gun clips on the body of a rebel who'd been armed appropriately. However, the magazines had been of the 60-round variety- not the 48-round clip that he normally used in his M7S, raising his concern as to whether it would fit. He'd kept his own submachine-gun, as he was happy with its silence and lack of recoil, but strapped the rebel's M7 to his pack- just in case.

Etch and Sketch were scoping out the area, fully armed. Sketch had taken up an M90 shotgun to replace her pistol, and pumped it conspicuously as she waited. Etch; on the other hand, had taken an MA5C assault rifle, which was now strapped across his back, and a BR55 battle rifle, which he now held in his hands. Kurt didn't doubt that Etch could be just as deadly with the scoped battle rifle as with a sniper rifle, the BR's inferior range and scope notwithstanding.

At that moment, static filled the com channels, followed briefly thereafter by a man's voice- Theodore Weller, captain of the ship that had delivered them- UNSC _Nighthawk_. He sounded tense, not a good sign. All Weller had had to do was sit in space and wait to pick them up. Apparently, something had changed.

"Squad Seven, this is Captain Weller. A rebel fleet and UNSC battle group Acheron are in high orbit mixing it up. Whatever you're doing down there, do it quick."

Kurt's insides remained exactly where they were, unsure whether to soar or to plummet. UNSC ships could provide reinforcements, but then again, rebel ships would make the mission just that much harder. He turned to Etch and Sketch.

"Our mission just got harder. Let's go- down to the bottom level- we gotta make sure those computers are FUBAR." When they nodded, Kurt turned around and set off down the two-kilometer sloped slide that was the mass launcher shell's flight path. Soft _pats_ on the ground behind him were the only indication that Etch and Sketch were still following him. Otherwise, the squad moved in total silence.

The trip downhill was quiet- other than the smoldering remains of friction and malfunction-induced fires, and the occasional crackle as a rock tumbled out of place; there was no activity, and nothing which would impede them. As they arrived near the bottom, that picture shattered like so much thin glass.

Dozens of rebel troopers, clutching weapons, sprinted into the hole made by the mass launcher. It didn't take long for them to go under, but Kurt's heart sank upon seeing survivors- it meant staying a while longer. Those rebels had to be taken down to prevent them from contacting their fleet in orbit.

"All right," he whispered, "you two are on my six." Two acknowledgment lights flashed on his HUD. He took a breath, and cautiously entered the gaping hole at the bottom of Castle Base.

Squad Seven found action almost immediately; two rebel troopers covering the tracks of their comrades collapsed with bullet wounds in their heads. Another Insurrectionist, who'd been standing with his comrades prior to their deaths, turned to run, but fell, hamstrung by half a dozen pistol and submachine-gun rounds that punctured his leggings.

Kurt and the others were on him in an instant. The muzzle of a lone M6 was pressed gently against the prone man's temple.

"All right," Kurt said, as quietly as he could, "talk, and nobody bites the big one."

For someone whose face was pressed to a rocky floor, the man was surprisingly coherent.

"Yeah? Why don't you just kill me like you did the other two, and spare the trouble?"

Kurt could feel the steam bubbling between his ears, and his face flushed with heat. "I'm feelin' nice," he growled, pushing the muzzle in further. "Now talk."

The prone rebel made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough, but it was hard to tell. The next part, though, was perfectly clear.

"Well here's something for you: _Kiss._ _My_. _Ass._"

Kurt snapped. His pistol left the man's temple and coughed three times as he fired a trio of rounds into the man's right leg. The air was filled with cries of pain, and the rebel tried to roll over. Kurt punished this with three more rounds, this time to the left leg. He shifted his aim slightly.

"Next one goes right in the middle, and I'd love an excuse."

The man's spirit seemed to fly from the room, prompting Kurt to smile behind his visor. It was a little cruder than a death threat, but it still worked.

"All right, all right- I'll talk…" the rebel said. Taking a breath, he started to speak- haltingly.

"This- this place is just an outpost- it doesn't mean anything to Command!"

"Then why are there MJOLNIR suits guarding this place?"

"We found like thirty here, okay? Half got shipped back to Command, and we're keeping the other half here!"

"Why?"

"I don't fuckin' know, all right? We were never told anything! We just came here and salvaged whatever you guys left us!"

A vein pulsed on Kurt's head and he fought the urge to pull the trigger for a brief moment. The UNSC would never _leave_ anything for rebels- not knowingly, anyway. He changed tack.

"Where did you take the other suits? And I don't accept silent stares."

"Command, okay? We took the suits back to Command!"

"Where Mr. and Mrs. Command settled down?"

It was as if someone had bolted a titanium plate over the man's mouth. Kurt bit his lip and considered another change of pace when a burst of three shots rang out. At the same moment, three dark holes opened up in the rebel's head and began to trickle blood. That, however, was nothing to the pool accumulating on the floor.

Kurt spun on his heel. "Etch! What the _hell _was that for?"

"We probably got all the intel we were ever gonna get out of him."

"We weren't _sure_ of that, and we WOULD have known if YOU hadn't just played a game of Pin the Bullet on the Skull!"

"Now why do I hear my valuable young charges quarreling?"

Kurt's heart stopped. It couldn't be him. That person was dead.

Out of a side passage leading further into Castle Base's rocky underside stepped Master Sergeant Michael Brakes.


	12. Chapter 11: Eyes in the Sky

**CHAPTER XI**

**2352 HOURS, 19 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**EXTREME LOW ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Ten Magnetic Accelerator Cannons fired in unison, their muzzle flashes casting a momentary orange-yellow glow on the UNSC ships that fired them. The resulting ten MAC slugs raced towards the rebel fleet, far too quick to be intercepted or avoided.

Two missed cleanly, tearing into the space behind the Insurrectionists. One clipped a rebel destroyer and tumbled away, leaving the victim of its impact spinning in space, its side flaming as kinetic energy equal to a nuclear detonation slashed a gaping hole in the ship's flank armor. Seven, however, connected solidly.

One slammed into a small rebel frigate, shattering one of its starboard engines, which promptly overloaded and ballooned into brilliant orange flames, which in turn were just as quickly extinguished by the atmosphere-deprived vacuum. Captain Weller sighed. _If only that strike had hit in-atmosphere_, he silently wished to himself. But a hit in space, though less spectacular, would ultimately be more deadly. The rebel ship now vented atmosphere, debris and bodies through the gaping hole in its starboard aft decks. Understandably, it hung back behind the less critically-damaged ships in its fleet.

Two of its fellow ships, however, were not so fortunate. Each caught the full brunt of three MAC shells, which ripped straight through the vessels' armor plating like a battering ram through a silk curtain. The slugs, not yet depleted, tore through deck after deck on the unfortunate ships, leaving chains of explosions across the rebel destroyers as a testament to their work. After three heart-stopping seconds, the rebel ships resembled nothing so much as floating metal skeletons.

The rebels were undaunted, though. They still outnumbered the UNSC ships almost two to one, and they'd now had time to regroup and plan their counterattack. A hail of Archer missiles raced towards the UNSC ships, their exhaust trails dissipating into nothingness in the utterly black vacuum. One of the frigates, the UNSC _Eight Lives Left_, shot forward to take the hits, as the rest of the battle group accelerated steadily behind her.

Dozens of enemy missiles impacted _Eight Lives Left_, blasting through her hull armor and incinerating huge portions of her internal atmosphere. In an act that doomed hundreds but saved hundreds more, the ship's captain vented the breached sections, and the _Eight Lives Left_, with thousands of gallons of air adding to her propulsion, zoomed straight at the rebel fleet, at the head of a short tail of flame and wreckage.

Another barrage of missiles arced towards the wounded ship, but _Eight Lives Left_ was still accelerated. As more explosives detonated on her armor, she became faster and faster- she was now too fast for a target lock for additional missiles. She fired her single MAC at a rebel ship, sending the six hundred ton projectile straight into the fore decks of a rebel cruiser, and creating a significant hole in the ship right where the Insurrectionist ship's own MAC used to be. The unfortunate vessel then blossomed into flames shortly thereafter. Still traveling and well over breakneck speed, _Eight Lives Left_ unleashed a hailstorm of Archer missiles seemingly at random into the inside of the rebel formation- she couldn't get a lock for her own missiles either. Captain Yurice was shooting blind.

As Weller and the rest of the crew looked on, _Eight Lives Left _tore through the back of the enemy formation, her path arcing as she crested Reach's horizon and vanished from view.

Rear Admiral Mores then made her move. Captain Yurice's maneuver with _Eight Lives Left_ had bought them precious time, and the battle group's MACs were now fully charged. A salvo of nine shells streaked towards the rebel ships, answered a split second later by a dozen MAC slugs heading in the opposite direction.

The impacts were catastrophic. The lead ship in the UNSC formation, the destroyer UNSC _Kilimanjaro_, intercepted no fewer than eight of the rebel MAC slugs, which took no time at all to tear her apart. Armor peeled and decks collapsed as the enemy ammunition's momentum took it on a bee-line straight through _Kilimanjaro_'s ventral sections, stripping away machinery and crushing her essential systems like a banana underneath a jackhammer. Even as the ship lost roughly a quarter of her mass each millisecond, she hurtled into the rebel battle group, upon which her reactors overloaded, consuming the nearest two rebel ships in a massive white flash. One was incinerated, but the other survived, albeit with large breaches scattered across her hull.

Two shots missed the UNSC ships completely, and Captain Weller silently hoped that _Eight Lives Left _would not complete her orbit path in time to catch one of the stray shells. One grazed _Acheron's_ side, shearing off almost the entire starboard side of the ship, but it would have been far worse if _Acheron_ had presented her side to the enemy. Weller sighed with relief- Mores was using her head, which was more often than not a good thing.

But the frigate UNSC _Pericles_ wasn't so lucky. The last rebel MAC round slammed into her upper decks, completely obliterating the intervening armor. It didn't stop there; instead, it continued to travel, boring a hole in the ship's command bridge before finally burying itself in _Pericles'_ amidships decks, the last of its kinetic energy consuming the ship in a gargantuan fireball.

The UNSC MAC barrage was no less effective, impaling no fewer than three of the rebel ships on the massive rounds, and simply watching as the resulting explosions tore the enemy apart. No point in wasting Archer missiles, Weller mused.

The two groups flew right past each other, each heading in the opposite direction- each headed towards its own horizon. The action had just moved to Reach's darker side.

"Damn…" Weller sighed. If _Nighthawk_ moved to observe Round Two, she might not be in place to receive Squad Seven's extraction signal; but if she stayed in low polar orbit, she would miss any signals the Rear Admiral sent her way. Weller bit his lip and thought for one long, torturous minute. At long last, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Warrant Officer Steel."

"Sir?"

"Launch a STARS probe and set in into orbit. We're staying where we are- that probe is going to be our eye above the battlefield."

"Sir, yes sir."

After five seconds, a small black probe hurtled away from _Nighthawk_, and towards the predicted site of the next clash. Assuming that the two forces were traveling at the same speed, they'd meet at the exact opposite point over Reach. Of course, that was just a guess.

It was a guess that turned out to be correct, though. The two battle groups neared each other on Reach's dark half. Weller could practically smell the upcoming carnage. _Eight Lives Left _was back with the UNSC ships, brightening the Rear Admiral's prospects somewhat, although they still weren't good.

The UNSC ships opened fire first, causing a brilliant display of explosions and collisions as they blunted the rebel charge. Two shells were all the rebels could send back at Mores' ships. When the wreckage had cleared somewhat, the feed from the probe showed the battle looking to be in the UNSC's favor- only five rebel ships remained, and those that did were not in peak condition. Bleeding fire and venting atmosphere, the rebel ships turned and attempted to escape Reach's gravity well, realizing all too late that their fight was now in vain.

Battle group _Acheron _had other intentions. The rebel ships dispersed, trying to present as little opportunity as possible for the UNSC to take all the ships out. As if on cue, swarms of Longsword fighters swept out from the hangar bays of the UNSC frigates and the cruiser UNSC _Agamemnon_. The fighter squadrons split into five wings, and each fighter unleashed its entire complement of Archer missiles at the fleeing rebel ships.

The impacts of dozens of missiles couldn't be ignored- they punched through armor and blew through the inner decks, igniting atmosphere and bubbling the superheated gases through the molten remnants of the destroyers' armor. After seven more seconds, explosions chained across the enemy ships- explosions originating inside their hulls. The critically damaged vessels were literally falling apart from the inside out. The Longswords returned to battle group Acheron, their mission complete.

Weller relaxed slightly against the back of his chair, and smiled. Maybe this mission wasn't going to be so bad.

At that moment, though, other things came to Weller's attention. For one, the com began to beep. Weller yelled for Lieutenant Yeats to open the channel, which the younger officer did with almost indecent speed and enthusiasm- Weller _had_ heard that operating the com station was boring, but had always dismissed it as idle chitchat and hearsay.

The signal was extremely weak, and static flooded through the channel.

"_Nighthawk- this- Sergeant Brakes- complex under Castle- repeat- we have found a- request- repeat: requesting- one five-man team- not- repeat- reinforcements- _Nighthawk,_ please acknowledge- repeat- acknowledge._"

Yeats simply stared at the speakers, almost as if he believed a signal _that_ bad could be coming out of _his_ station. Weller had no time for such theatrics, and promptly swore under his breath- _Nighthawk_'s only groundside asset had been Squad Seven- contacting Rear Admiral Mores would be their only hope for reinforcements.

A second event interrupted that train of thought, though.

"We've got Hawking radiation spikes- more Slipspace transitions in-system, sir." Weller nodded at Kagabe's news, unsure of whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

At that moment, a third occurrence answered that unspoken question for him. Lieutenant Yeats yelled up from the com station, "Sir! We've got an incoming transmission- it's been bounced through Slipspace using a carrier wave, sir! Patching it through now."

Despite the much longer distance this message likely had to travel, it was of infinitely better quality than the one Squad Seven had sent up. Weller recognized the voice as that of Admiral Joshua Pevely.

"This is Admiral Pevely, UNSC Navy Third Fleet Commanding Officer, issuing an emergency broadband transmission. Operation: DRAG NET has failed- repeat, Operation: DRAG NET has failed. Rebel ships have broken our blockades of their known strongholds and breached our jamming signals. They have jumped through Slipspace on unknown vectors- repeat, on unknown vectors. All UNSC ships receiving this signal and encountering rebel ships stand to and respond on this frequency IMMEDIATELY. Do not engage- repeat; do NOT engage the enemy ships."

Yeats looked up. "That's all there is, sir."

At that moment, the Slipspace ruptures detected before flashed into a visible maelstrom of blue-white light and spectacular Cherenkov radiation as particle decays were super-accelerated past the translight barrier by the transition through Slipspace. Weller gulped at the sight. Only Roy Kagabe at the sensor station dared to speak.

"Detecting one hundred-seventeen hostile contacts, sir."

Weller did not reply. It seemed ironic to him that he had survived a xenocidal war against billions of aliens to be killed by his own species.


	13. Chapter 12: Ace in the Hole

**CHAPTER XII**

**0000 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**EXTREME LOW ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"HORNET and RAGNAROK mines deployed, sir."

Theodore Weller nodded. Ten HORNET fission nuclear mines and four of the newer RAGNAROK fusion mines had been deployed in orbit over Reach- Admiral Mores' best chance of surviving the rebel fleet's onslaught long enough for reinforcements to arrive from- somewhere, hopefully. They had received word of incoming reinforcements from Earth several minutes ago- all they could do now was hold on until Admiral Pevely came.

Battle group Acheron had contributed its own nuclear weapons to the defense. On the opposite side of Reach, six Shiva warheads, four HAVOK warheads and one RAGNAROK had been positioned. _Acheron_ had even disassembled her single NOVA bomb- since breaking Reach into pieces was not an option- and the nine fusion warheads were added to the perimeter. If the rebels came around either side of the planet, their ranks would be thinned- considerably. Weller could only imagine what the crews on board the UNSC warships were feeling. Even if the minefield worked, there was no guarantee that the odds would be tipped in their favor- there were simply _too_ many rebel ships.

"Sir, _Acheron_ is beaming us the codes for the battle group's warheads, and shorting out their own controls for them- we've got one hell of a fireball at our fingertips."

Weller sighed- this was the last thing he wanted- more responsibility in this battle. The survival of the UNSC ships, and by extension, Squad Seven, depended on his timing. If he detonated the mines too early, then he wouldn't accomplish anything by the blasts. If he was too late, any casualties caused wouldn't matter- Mores would be dead and her ships gone by then, and Squad Seven would have to fight thousands of rebel troops until hell froze and then thawed out again.

Minute by minute by torturous minute, the rebel fleet, numbering over one hundred, split up and inched around Reach. It hardly took a genius to figure out what the wreckage of rebel and UNSC ships meant. Captain Weller bit his lip- _Pericles _and _Kilimanjaro_ had been lost with all hands- and now Admiral Mores and the rest of her fleet would be too. Weller had heard of a similar event that had happened near the end of the Human-Covenant War in the Zeta Doradus system. A human battle group led my Admiral Carl Patterson had reduced a Covenant fleet almost triple its size down to two battered and damaged destroyers, only to be vaporized by Covenant reinforcements. Mores was of the same stock as Patterson- a brilliant commander who was not afraid of breathing her last during a fight. Weller only hoped that _Acheron_ would be luckier than UNSC _Stalingrad_ had been.

Licking his dry lips, Weller turned to Kagabe. "Check our orbit stability- I don't want us dropping if the EMP knocks our engines out." Kagabe simply nodded.

Confirmation was given a few seconds later. "Our orbit is stable, sir."

"Good- shut down all nonessential systems and prepare to isolate computer systems after the blast is triggered."

"Rigging the computers now, sir."

"Good to hear. Inform me when you're done."

"No prob, _el Capitan_."

Weller rolled his eyes- cheeriness seemed out of place in situations like this.

"Systems trigger online, sir. We could turn them off right now if we had to."

"Hold that thought. Commander Kagabe, what's the position of the rebel fleet?"

"Rebel ships are approaching the distal line of minefield alpha- nothing's close to beta, sir."

"Damn. Tell the Rear Admiral to wait a little longer."

As the requested message was sent, several beads of sweat crawled down Weller's head. The ships he had been on had never participated in any major actions with one exception- Earth- and there had never been much riding on ships under his command. At one point, the corvette under his command in 2549, UNSC _Terminal Velocity,_ had actually been assigned to wreckage cleanup. It had taken until the battle of Earth to live the indignity down.

"Sir- enemy vessels are in optimal firing position. We have two ships beyond the proximal line in the alpha field and thirty-three between the proximal and distal lines, and we have sixteen ships between the proximal and distal lines of the beta field."

"Good. Remove safety interlocks."

The crew scrambled to remove the electronic safety mechanisms on the nuclear warheads, and the red 'Fire' button on Weller's command console lit up. He then turned to the controls and entered three five-digit codes, which activated the nukes- they were now dangerous. He pushed his thumb to a biometric scanner, which unlocked one more set of scanners.

Taking another breath, Weller put his mouth to a small microphone and said loudly, "Theodore Weller, captain, UNSC _Nighthawk_." The words 'Identity confirmed- Tier 5 Safety Interlocks Disabled' flashed in green on one of the control panels. Weller flexed his index finger, placed it to the glowing red 'Fire' button, took a final breath, and pushed. The lights illuminating the deck went out instantly and the blue-white avatar of the ship's NAV AI winked out, leaving Weller unnerved. AIs were definitely an asset for ships- it was nigh on impossible to perform Slipspace transition calculations manually. In other words, if their AI went down, they were effectively stuck.

Black space turned golden-white as a grand total of thirty-four nuclear warheads erupted into titanic blossoms of energy. Weller had forgotten to shut his eyes, and the sheer intensity of the radiance burned the image of the blast into his retinas, complete with spots in his vision where the silhouettes of rebel ships had been in the microseconds preceding the blasts. After an instant, the flames dissipated, starved of the necessary oxygen to perpetuate themselves. Weller could not believe his eyes. All over the deck, several crew members did not bother to suppress small gasps of wonder. Weller himself heard, "Whoa…" escape his lips without his being aware of it.

The rebel ships had been almost halved in numbers. Forty-nine of the one hundred-seventeen rebel ships had been destroyed. There was a total absence in rubble, even- the massive energies released by the cumulative blasts had completely and utterly vaporized and obliterated any and all traces of the ships caught in their wake. The EMP resulting from the explosions sped through the surviving ships, leaving them adrift and helpless for the moment. And a moment was all Admiral Mores would need.

Five ships shot towards the remnants of the alpha fields like comets, cannons ablaze. MAC rounds ripped through the rebel ships, followed by hundreds of Archer missiles. Explosions and blasts chained throughout the floating enemy ships, incinerating the helpless vessels with their crews on board. It was a spine-chilling sight. But- for all the effort, the battle group had destroyed barely two dozen ships before streaking past the enemy ships and back into open space. Mores broadcasted a message on an open channel- Weller had to admire the Read Admiral's nerve.

"Damn good show, Captain. I haven't seen fireworks like that since the first battle of Reach- can't say I was happier seeing those. Nicely done. Okay people; let's get set to cross into the beta zone. Prep Archer missiles for a follow-up attack."

Weller smiled to himself. Archer missiles had been either finishing moves or desperation tactics during the Covenant War, when the ships the UNSC had been facing possessed shields, but now...

By now, though, the rebel ships were recovering from the nuclear strike- many were moving in tightly-knit formations of half a dozen or more, and those had formed into two semi-coherent battle groups. Weller was pleased to see that none of the ships were without battle damage, but his satisfaction was dampened by the very fact that they were operational at all.

Weller cautiously spoke to the crew. "What's the status on electronics, people?"

"AI online, sir. Welcome back, Keiana."

The blue-white figure of a young woman smiled at the crew. "It's good to be back, everyone. Subsystems online now, captain."

"That's good to know. Lieutenant Yeats, I need a line to _Acheron_, and I need it ten minutes ago."

"Encrypting now, sir. And… line ready. Better do it now, sir- I can't guarantee a connection for much longer."

Weller drew himself up and tried to look calmer than he felt, an immensely difficult task. Rear Admiral Mores' face came up on the central viewscreen.

"What is this about, Weller? We've still got a job to do out here."

"Admiral, we just received a message from Squad Seven on the ground, and they need help- badly. I'm not talking about extraction just yet- they need ground support."

Mores paused momentarily. "Very well. _Agamemnon_ will deploy its ODSTs in support of your troops. Don't worry, Captain- Major Paxton plays nice." A crooked smile worked its way across Mores' face. Weller tried to remain composed as he spoke.

"Thank you, ma'am." Weller then killed the channel.

The cruiser UNSC _Agamemnon_ detached itself from the rest of the UNSC fleet, and within a few minutes, hundreds of tiny silver specks separated themselves from the ship's underside and streaked towards the planet's surface. Weller sighed with relief; at the very least, the mission wasn't in danger of imminent failure.

But it was in very real danger of ultimate failure- Mores had five ships to pit against the rebels' forty-eight, and even a concentrated attack by Mores wouldn't do much to even such lopsided odds.

_Nighthawk_ stayed high and invisible above Reach, her part in the battle now over. The calm of the space around the ship betrayed the frantic activity on her bridge, though. At the eye of the storm, Theodore watched events unfold; hating the useless position his ship was in.

_Agamemnon_'s captain, Alice Miles, soon spoke to him through FLEETCOM. "All right captain; ODSTs deployed, and Major Paxton will be deferring to the leader of your operation. You're their voice in the sky now- we're cutting contact now before the fireworks begin. Good luck."

Weller sighed as the channel crackled and the signal died out. Beaming information from space was better than asking as a way to get _Nighthawk_ blasted out of orbit. He turned to Lieutenant Yeats.

"Set up a single-beam relay with our STARS probe, and bounce the signal down to Reach. Tell Major Paxton to find Castle Base- that's where the squad is. Once they've regrouped, have them send a reply."

"Sir!"

As Yeats did the dirty work, Weller turned to the front viewscreens, unable to keep his mind from the one-sided battle Rear Admiral Mores seemed intent on fighting.

The five ships _Acheron, Agamemnon, Eight Lives Left, Buenos Aires,_ and _Ticonderoga_ streaked towards their adversaries, who were bearing down on them from two directions in a massive pincer movement. The image of a pack of sharks bearing down on a small school of minnows came to Weller's mind. This was suicide.

At a signal Weller did not see or receive, the UNSC fleet struck. A small cloud of silvery projectiles flew from the outnumbered ships under Mores' charge, and with each second, it seemed to grow. Weller would have smiled if the situation had been less hopeless for Mores and her ships.

The two fleets streaked towards each other, and Mores was outnumbered almost ten to one. If Weller didn't know any better, he'd have said that this was the Covenant war all over again.

The cloud of silver-white dust projectiles led a cluster of orange flame trails towards the rebel fleet, growing less and less visible as the individual missiles dispersed amongst the rebel ships.

And then, it happened. The entire rebel ship formation was shrouded in a sea of fire as the Archer missiles detonated. The fire did not last long, though, and eventually extinguished itself in the vacuum. Weller was impressed, in spite of himself.

A dozen rebel ships had been completely destroyed; their armor melted by the explosives and promptly crushed by the cumulative pressure waves of the missiles. After fighting so long against enemy ships that could take dozens of Archer missile impacts without suffering a scratch, the damage the UNSC battle group could do to Insurrectionist ships seemed almost appalling.

The remainder of the rebel ships looked more menacing than ever, though- and if Weller's assumptions were right, Rear Admiral Mores was running low on munitions. One more attack would doom the UNSC battle group. Weller stood up- in that moment, he might or might not have been sane, but he knew what he had to do- _Nighthawk_'s crew of one hundred and four Navy personnel was a worthwhile sacrifice for the thousands on board the ships under Mores' command. He keyed his authorization code into the SHIPCOM channel, and cleared his throat.

"Attention, _Nighthawk _personnel, this is your Captain speaking. The time has come where we make our choice. Thousands of our kin are out there putting their lives on the line, and now it is time for us to do the same. What we do next will save or damn Admiral Mores and the crews of the ships under her command, and I for one am willing to ensure that they leave this broken world, whether or not I leave with them."

He coughed- something seemed to be stuck in his throat. After several seconds, he started again.

"Those who wish to stay behind, remain on the ship. All those who do not wish to do so, report to the nearest escape pod, and I will tell Admiral Mores' ships to pick you up. There will be no recriminations or accusations, because what I ask of you is completely unreasonable. I have asked you to lead this ship into combat in what was supposed to be a simple insertion; I have asked you to put your lives on the line in what is supposed to be a time of peace. Odds are very good that we will not survive the next few minutes. To those who wish to leave- do not let us stop you. Remember what we did here, and do not wish that you had died with us. Live well, and our ghosts will be content. To those who are staying- report to your action stations immediately. It's been an honor." He squelched the channel.

Sitting back down in his chair, he looked around at his crew. Not one of them moved, with the exception of Commander Kagabe, who shifted to wipe a solitary tear from his eye. Weller nodded towards his old friend.

"I thank you- each and every one of you. Know that I would rather fly into combat with you than head the Home Fleet itself. We've got one shot to save Admiral Mores and her ships, so we have to make this run count. Prepare weapons."

After a minute of solemn silence, Kagabe turned to Weller.

"Archer missiles ready, sir. And no-one has left their posts. None of the escape pods have been jettisoned."

Weller was overwhelmed for a moment by the nobility of his crew, and then choked when he realized that he had consigned them all to their deaths. He recovered and stood- sentiment would only be a detriment from here on out.

"Get me a line to Admiral Mores," he ordered, "we have to tell her the plan."

Kagabe nodded.

Weller turned to the central viewscreen and drank in the vista offered. It had never really occurred to him just how beautiful the stars looked.


	14. Chapter 13: Humanity

**CHAPTER XIII**

**0002 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**UNDERNEATH ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"How- how- I mean… how did you- survive?" Kurt spluttered. Despite his utter bemusement, he was genuinely happy to see his squad leader again. The part of him that was Pyro was growing larger every minute, and showed no signs of slowing.

"The Innie-" Brakes paused a moment to spit- "who fired that laser was a real idiot. Sent most of the floor down around five or six stories, by my guess. Sent about a dozen of his friends down too. A couple of them broke my fall." He chuckled darkly. "Wasn't completely unscathed, though- impact knocked out my helmet com and squashed the TEAMBIO sensors. Sorry if I scared you kids."

Pyro nodded, remembering the awful hollow sensation he'd felt when he saw the Sergeant's readings simply being absent from his heads-up display. Another thought occurred to him at that moment. "Sarge," he said, "what about the El-Tee?"

Brakes shook his head. "Don't know what happened to her. If she has any sense, she'll have kept her IFF tag inactive- this place is crawling with hostiles. Don't know much about spooks, but if she wasn't good enough ONI wouldn't have sent her." The Master Sergeant slipped his helmet back onto his close-shaven head and sealed his collar. "So… enough about me. What's up with you, Pyro? You look like a Spartan threw up on you- well, half of you."

Momentarily thrown off, Pyro glanced back down at himself. "Oh," he replied lamely, before his brain cranked out another response. "An explosion compromised my armor, and I thought it appropriate to- um- appropriate armor components to replace the damaged sections." As soon was he was finished, Pyro silently berated himself. Why _now_, of _all_ times, did he have to go all formal? Where was this when the Lieutenant had been all business?

He could have sworn that he saw Brakes blink several times even through his opaque visor, but then the Master Sergeant spoke.

"Well, we got reinforcements on their way, and an angry rebel-" another globule of spit hit the stone floor of the tunnel- "welcoming committee waitin' for us downstairs. So we're going topside."

Sketch straightened and faced Brakes. "Sir, the rebs are on the run- we should pursue them and deny them any chances to regroup."

"And you think that four Helljumpers are gonna scare 'em? I admire your spunk, Sketch, but I was there when we fought at Reach the first time." A shadow came over Brakes, showing even through his polarized faceplate. "If you're going to do something, do it fully, or don't do it. That's the only way you have a chance of success, and even then it's not a guarantee."

"Well, I'm sorry sir, but this _isn't_ the Covenant we're fighting."

"It is _that_ attitude that will get you killed, trooper! We are headed topside to meet with backup before proceeding, no arguments or exceptions. Am I clear?"

Sketch balled his free left hand into a fist, but otherwise did not move. Brakes inched in on the younger- and shorter- ODST.

"I don't think I heard your answer, trooper. _Am I clear_?"

"Understood, _sir._"

Brakes backed away, but the two Helljumpers continued their silent staredown. Pyro half-expected his breath to fog his visor- the place suddenly began to feel like a frozen-over tomb. But just as suddenly as it began, the confrontation ended. Brakes was checking the magazine in his M6 pistol, and Sketch was checking his Oracle scope's uplink to his helmet.

Pyro looked at his squadmates. Their prospects had certainly changed since the drop- two fleets were now mixing it up in the upper atmosphere, the rebels were on the run in the ruins of an old UNSC base, and hundreds of their fellow Helljumpers were now headed groundside. From what Captain Weller had just told them, he had cause for both optimism and concern. Their original mission was quite likely FUBAR by now. So what was their new objective? Why did they even _need_ reinforcements?

He looked over to Sergeant Brakes. "Hey, boss-man, what's the plan?"

Brakes shook his grizzled head. "One step at a time, Pyro. First we get topside and load up. Then we'll see about getting back down. I've heard about Paxton, and she's all right."

Pyro frowned. Close as the ODSTs of the various Helljumper units often were, he'd never heard of Major Paxton before- and he hadn't known she was a woman. He looked over at Brakes as Squad Seven set off towards the destroyed upper levels of Castle Base. He wasn't quite sure of his Master Sergeant's enlistment date, but most of Sarge's war stories dated from around the time of Jericho VII- Pyro had just been eight years old, and Brakes was already in the war. He wondered just how many people he'd run into. That- and the silence was becoming deafening. He cleared his throat.

"So Sarge," he said, "how do you know Major Paxton?"

He heard Brakes chuckle a low, deep chuckle, which sounded a little grating through TEAMCOM. All the same, he listened.

"She was just First Lieutenant Paxton when I met her," the Master Sergeant said, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice. "On the way to Biko. Four years younger than I was, and she'd gotten through the Academy and everything. She was with the 105th Division, and it may not seem like it now, but back then serving in that outfit was a big deal." He paused. "The 105th was a veteran unit," he said, and Pyro noticed a little steel in his tone, "best of the best, even for Helljumpers. The 105th DJP- the one that got torn up on Jericho- some of them were reassigned troopers from the 105th Division. Hell of a bunch."

He seemed to regain awareness of his audience, and his tone seemed friendlier, but Kurt wasn't quite so sure. "Anyway- we weren't fighting long- all the Covenant had to do was shake a leg in space and next thing we know, the evac order's in every ear louder than the Rapture. I was just a regular jarhead back then- she actually convinced me to join the ODSTs- asked if I knew what it all meant, that they needed more of the damn guys… then she asked."

"What'd you say?" Pyro asked, leaning in to hear his Sergeant almost in spite of himself. Etch had long devoted her attention to Brakes, and even Sketch had abandoned his steely silence and gave Brakes an open ear. Brakes chuckled.

"I said yes- didn't even hesitate. And before I can blink, I'm in the 19th Battalion, riding in a pod on my way down to Cepheus, and I think to myself, 'Why the hell did I do this?'." He laughed, mostly to himself. Pyro was almost surprised to find a puzzled look on his face. He wiped it off, and resumed the attack.

"So did you see her again?"

Brakes turned his way so quickly that Pyro half-expected his neck to snap. But when he spoke, it was with a well-controlled tone.

"No… only chance we got was about five minutes on _Cairo_ Station before the uglies came to Earth. The 105th hopped onto _In Amber Clad_, and- you should remember this, Pyro- we…" Kurt could almost taste the bitterness in his voice, "we got the _Seven of Spades_."

"_Seven of Spades?_" Sketch asked, incredulously. "My god, who named that ship?"

Brakes shrugged. "Got me," he replied, "but I happen to know someone who served on UNSC _Say My Name_."

Pyro tried hard to suppress a laugh, disguising what came out as a cough. Brakes was quick to comment. "You should really get a check-up before going on a cold op, Pyro- it's freezin' outside."

"Oh, haha, Sarge."

Lieutenant Fehling coughed, and blood spattered the inside of her visor. She took relief in the fact that the spatter was only light, but all the same- it was not something she could just shake off. She wasn't a Spartan.

She stood, wincing as pain lanced through her left leg. From her training, she could pinpoint the injury. Strained ankle joint- she was going to feel that later. Then again, she was feeling it now. But she wouldn't need it now. She carefully lowered herself to the floor, injected a local aenesthetic into the injury, and then forced the joint back into its proper position, cursing as her nerves screamed bloody murder at her. As the sedative kicked in, she reveled in the non-feeling, and took the opportunity to get up. She stumbled slightly- without full nervous control of her left leg, standing would be difficult. But after several seconds, she rose.

Fehling concentrated on moving, putting one foot in front of the other and slowly walking through the wreckage that was probably once a tunnel- but she couldn't quite tell. She had to continually blink spots out of her vision, and her breathing was strangely shallow.

Lieutenant Fehling slowed down for a moment to catch her breath. She may have had field training for ONI, but she had NOT been trained for heavy combat. The scope of this was almost beyond her. She'd never been in an actual firefight, much less in a situation of receiving injuries from battle. That was- until now.

She heard movement up front, and reached for her rifle, and then realized with a horrible _pang_ in her stomach that it wasn't there. She cursed her inattentiveness, but cleared that aside and focused. Now was not the time for an ONI agent- a Section Three Operative, no less- to lose her head.

She activated the panels on her SPI armor, and those that worked hummed ever so slightly as they mimicked the visual patterns around her. She smiled- after the destruction of Onyx, the SPI suits that ONI still had in the pipeline were funneled into Section Three field ops units. She sighed when she considered the intended wearers of the armor, but then saw what caused the movement.

An Insurrectionist trooper came into the passageway from a junction, his rifle raised, and his back to Lieutenant Fehling. _Sloppy_, she thought, before launching herself along the passageway as quickly as she could move.

The man must have heard the footsteps, because he turned with his rifle raised- and did a double take. Fehling knew she must have looked odd, being a half-invisible reddish-silver stain in midair, but she didn't give it a moment's consideration. She wrapped her arm around the man's head and, as he fired his MA5C randomly in panic, wrenched it right around with a _pop_. The Insurrectionist fell to the floor limply.

Fehling retrieved the rebel's rifle and ammunition. As she inspected the clips, she glanced down at the body, and felt- repulsed, for some reason. Until now, she'd never had to kill anyone either. In the heat of battle alongside the ODST squad and with a mission to accomplish, she'd quickly and ruthlessly put down anyone in their way, but now…

The silence loomed long before her as she stood still in front of the corpse.

"I must be out of my mind," she muttered to herself, as she sank to a crouch.

Gently, she twisted the man's head so that his face was pointed the same way as the front of his body, wincing when a series of soft _crack-crack-cracks _sounded as the dislocated vertebrae protested being moved from their location twice in such short succession. She then looked into the man's eyes- they were simply blank. He might have just seen a surprisingly beautiful moon and gazed reverently at it. A lump crawled into the Lieutenant's throat, and she placed her fingers over the man's eyelids, drawing them shut.

She turned from the dead body and headed down the passageway, rifle pointed in front of her, and ears peeled for the first sound of trouble. She wasn't sure that she'd be able to hear anything, though. She wasn't really sure of anything now.


	15. Chapter 14: Raised Stakes

**CHAPTER XIV**

**0003 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**HIGH ORBIT OVER TURUL (NATURAL SATELLITE ORBITING PLANET REACH), EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Captain Weller bit his lip nervously as another Slipspace rupture lit up the black sky, swallowing the shape of UNSC _Eight Lives Left_, the last of the ships leaving the system.

He'd proposed his plan of sacrificing _Nighthawk_ in order to save the UNSC battle group to Rear Admiral Mores- and she had cut him off almost immediately. She had then proceeded to map out an alternative plan for him. Weller had been more than a little miffed at being so quickly overruled, but he had to admire the Rear Admiral's nerve.

The plan had been for all remaining ships to transfer their munitions to _Acheron_, and then jump out of the system while the flagship covered them, with _Nighthawk_'s support. The two remaining ships would then create as much havoc as possible, and then contact Admiral Pevely's fleet before rendezvousing in Slipspace for a counter-attack. Weller had to admit the plan made sense- the ten meters of Titanium-A armor plating on a supercarrier made it extremely resilient against any human weapon short of a MAC slug or nuclear warhead, and _Acheron_'s replenished weapons stores would create much more trouble for any harassing rebels than _Nighthawk_'s single pulse laser and her lone Archer missile pod. All the same, he'd proposed this plan to the Rear Admiral to _save_ her people. The hundred men and women aboard _Nighthawk _did not seem so great a cost against the thousands in the Rear Admiral's fleet.

Adding almost two thousand to the number being risked leveled out the odds- a _lot_.

As _Nighthawk_ completed another orbit of Turul, Reach grew in the main viewscreen. Rear Admiral Mores had already moved _Acheron_ from its position behind Reach's other moon, Csodaszarvas. At four kilometers, _Acheron_ was one of the two largest vessels in the UNSC Navy- the other was the Home Fleet's newly-completed flagship, the supercarrier UNSC _Nile_. How a Rear Admiral had ever been posted to _Acheron_, Weller didn't know, but that didn't matter. What mattered to him was that massive though she was, _Acheron_ was facing forty-plus rebel ships. Unless she could pull off some sort of miracle, she was as good as scrap.

The rebel fleet moved from orbit around Reach, closing in on _Acheron_- a pack of sharks moving in on a whale. Weller thought the analogy apt, given the respective sizes of those involved. The largest rebels ships could not have been more than a quarter of the supercarrier's size.

"Take us in- push the thrusters just under the darkline limit," he ordered. The crew of UNSC _Dusk_ had avoided detection through the entire battle at Onyx while maneuvering at the very limit of a prowler's stealth capability, and while _Nighthawk_ was newer and more advanced, Weller wasn't quite so sure he wanted to risk the barely-protected ship against a rebel battle group. _Stay hidden_, his instincts told him- the instincts that no good prowler captain lacked. Weller closed his eyes as he mentally recited his own personal motto as an officer aboard a prowler: Stay hidden and hit hard. _Nighthawk_ didn't have any more warheads, so the 'hit hard' part would have to wait.

_Acheron_, now a speck against the giant white sphere that was Reach, moved closer to the Insurrectionist fleet. Weller could practically taste the tension. The camera feeds from _Nighthawk_'s remote probes showed nothing happening yet.

There was an old saying: 'When it rains, it pours' that Weller had often heard during his years service back during the Human-Covenant War, used countless times to refer to humanity's seemingly endless string of defeats in that conflict. Captain Weller thought that phrase also fit rather well with this situation.

Black space seemed to flash white as the rebel fleet unleashed a flood of ship-to-ship missiles, the projectiles' pearly exhaust trails coloring space and then dissipating into the vacuum. Sweat poured down Weller's face as they made their way towards the UNSC flagship. Not even _Acheron_ would be able to take all those hits. As it turns out, she didn't have to.

All at once, golden flashes materialized around the supercarrier as her sixty point-defense guns blazed to life, thinning out the missiles as they approached the space around the ship. Weller understood the disadvantage such a massed attack created. With so many moving bodies, _Acheron_'s AI wouldn't even need to aim the guns- simply filling the air with enough anti-air fire would deal with the majority of the missiles. The space around the supercarrier flared orange as thousands of the missiles met their ends at the hands of uranium-tipped shells, sympathetic explosions chaining spectacularly through entire clusters of the explosives. Every few seconds or so, one missile would miraculously weave through the web of flak and impact the Titanium-A, but these were indisputably in the minority. At the end of fourteen seconds, _Acheron_ was basically intact.

The rebel ships, however, weren't idle. While the UNSC ship had fended off the missile attack, the forty-plus enemy ships had repositioned themselves so that their noses pointed towards _Acheron_. Weller knew, as any Navy officer would, that only one human ship-launched weapon required such an alignment.

And Weller also knew, as any Navy officer would, that all the flak rounds in the UNSC couldn't stop a MAC slug.

_Acheron_ leapt forward in space, streaking towards the rebel ships as their prows lit up. Nothing seemed to happen, and for an instant, Weller's heart rate settled. But then a shell hit the supercarrier's aft decks. The MAC slug had only clipped the massive ship, but crimson flames billowed from the exposed innards, dying a short distance into the vacuum. _Acheron_ spun briefly, but corrected her course, wheeling around as another barrage of missiles hit. Her point-defense guns spun up again, but weren't nearly as successful the second time around.

"Get us in there," Weller ordered. "Push our engines right up to the darkline limit, and prep weapons systems."

"Aye, sir. Answering full ahead under darkline limit."

_Nighthawk_ shot forward, and the space battle ahead grew larger, growing in stark multicolored contrast against the blank gray slate that was Reach. _Acheron_ dove between two rebel ships, spared, albeit temporarily, from the merciless beating. As she streaked between the hostile vessels, an explosion erupted on either side of her. Weller squinted at the scene.

"Get me an energy reading!" he yelled.

"Single-source detonation, sir," Commander Kagabe reported. "Too concentrated for a nuke, probably lateral MAC blasts."

"_Acheron's_ got _lateral_ MACs?" Lieutenant Yeats blurted out, turning around with his mouth open in shock.

_No surprise_, Weller thought to himself. The gargantuan ship was without a doubt one of the most heavily armed vessels in the human arsenal, given that she'd been refit and rebuilt specifically for action against Covenant ships in the dying days of 2552, before the war came to its miraculous conclusion early the next year. The only ships that outdid _Acheron_ in terms of weapons were the newer plasma-equipped warships, which, despite ONI's constant redactions, had been the source of rumors throughout the entire UNSC.

The two ships on either side of _Acheron_ cracked, snapping cleanly in half as the tension in their amidships sections became critical. Fire, air and bodies bled into open space. But the run had cost the lone UNSC ship. As she emerged from the wreckage, dozens more missiles impacted her hull, and her dorsal compartments ruptured. Fire sped across the carrier's spine like a wild mare. After several seconds, the flames thinned out and died as the breached sections were vented. Weller murmured a quick prayer under his breath as _Nighthawk _crept closer to the carnage.

"Weapons check," Weller said, making his breaths slow and deliberate, but silent.

"Archer pod is keyed in, and our pulse laser is running," Lieutenant Wingate reported. "We'll be within firing range of the nearest rebel ship in…" she took a moment to glance at her targeting console, "one minute."

The captain nodded, all too aware that any sane commander would try to exhaust every option- every _single_ option- before taking a prowler into combat. _Nighthawk_ had one weapon that was common to UNSC ships- the Archer missile. But most ships had hundreds- dozens of missiles inside each of dozens of pods. _Nighthawk_ had one pod, with four missiles.

And the pulse laser… Weller didn't know how thick the armor on the rebel ships was, but he was pretty sure that there were a lot of viable alternatives to _Nighthawk_'s shipboard laser. Sure, the pulse laser could overload reactors and penetrate the protective casings of nuclear warheads, but even a UNSC frigate, with just sixty centimeters of Titanium-A armor, could hold out for a long time against the lone beam.

"Thirty seconds, sir."

"Calculate a firing solution. One ship for each Archer missile, followed by a one-second burst," Weller ordered, a slight quaver coming to his throat. He looked around for a glass of water- his throat was parched. When he saw none, he decided against leaving the bridge- a ship's captain leaving its crew just before combat was a death blow for morale.

"Firing solutions calculated, sir. We'll be cutting it close, but it's possible. Twenty-five seconds."

"All right. Let's get ready to do this, people. Give me full darkness protocols. I want those Insurrectionists to start believing in ghosts, capiche?"

Capiche? Where had that come from? Weller resisted the urge to shake his head.

"Fifteen seconds, sir."

The nearest rebel ship, over three hundred meters long, loomed large on the bridge's main viewscreen. Weller looked it up and down. If he had to guess, he would say the ship was the equivalent of the medium-class UNSC ships, either a frigate or destroyer, but beyond that, he'd be unable to tell. Then again, he wasn't even sure of that- a decade before the UNSC went to war against the Covenant, FLEETCOM had toyed with the concept of 'pocket carriers', capital ships that could deploy large complements of fighter and transport craft, and still be a fraction of the size- and cost- of a full-sized carrier. It was entirely possible that this ship was of that category.

_The fact is,_ Weller thought inwardly, _I don't have a clue_.

"Five seconds."

"Warm up the main thrusters," Weller said. "I don't want us sitting here when ordnance starts flying."

"Aye, sir," Kagabe reported.

Weller stared raptly at the central viewscreen, watching the distance and time indicators count down to zero as _Nighthawk_ coasted, invisible to eyes both biological and electronic, towards the Insurrectionist fleet, no mean feat, considering that the group of forty-plus ships was chasing the now-battered _Acheron_. After five seconds, all displays read zero, and the red lettering began to alternate, flashing between crimson red and brilliant acid green.

Weller sucked in a breath.

"Fire."

Major Andrea Paxton sighed deeply as her SOIEV reached the bottom of the snow bank it had been sliding down for the past minute. Her door ejectors fired flawlessly, and she stepped out into the white, white world, losing her breath for an instant.

Her breathing grew shallow as she looked around. Aside from her metallic-gray pod, everything was white. Either it was a softer white, like the snow that swirled back and forth across the endless flats of the landscape, or it was a hard, glinting color, crystalline in quality, like the cracked rock she gingerly stepped on. And it was all flat. Nothing out there. Nobody out there. A lump rose in her throat for a brief instant before she forced back the coming sob.

Out of the stormy sky, another drop pod fell into the ground in front of her, sending a five-meter spray of rock chips and ice over both her and her pod. Dusting herself down, she rushed over to the HEV, being very careful not to stand directly in front of the door, which shot from the pod shortly thereafter. The Helljumper inside clambered out, giving an abbreviated salute to Paxton as he did so.

"What's your unit?" she asked the trooper.

"Bravo Two-Two, ma'am. Sergeant Musser's squad."

Major Paxton nodded as she examined the trooper's IFF tag, which identified him as Private First Class Piotr Khayalkov.

"All right, Private, you're with me now. Watch my back."

"Yah, ma'am."

Paxton nodded and returned to her pod, booting up its COM suite. ODST squad leaders and officers had a more advanced communications unit installed in their HEVs so as to better forward orders to troops in the field. Paxton entered her UNSC Service Number and personal pass code.

"All units," she said slowly and loudly into her helmet COM, which was now linked to the pod's broadcast system, "this is Major Paxton. Once you have gathered your supplies and equipment, regroup in grid square-" she cleared her throat- "Echo Alpha Six Four Nine Eight. I say again, gather supplies and equipment, and regroup in grid square Echo Alpha Six Four Nine Eight. Paxton out."

She terminated the channel, and turned around to face the Private. "Did you get that?"

Khayalkov touched his index finger and thumb together, while pointing the three other fingers of his left hand out. The universal _okay_ signal.

"All right- get whatever you need out of your pod. We're moving out in three."

"Sir."

As Khayalkov moved away, Major Paxton reached into her pod and retrieved her pack. The meter-high object was a marvel of military efficiency. Rations, water, spare ammunition, explosives, communications gear, power packs, and several other things Paxton could not remember- they were all in the field pack, and to top it off, the pack was easily portable- an ODST with a field pack on was no less effective in combat than an ODST that wasn't carrying the extra weight.

She also reached into the pod's weapon rack and retrieved her BR-55 battle rifle. She patted the battered weapon as it came to rest in her hands, and tweaked her suit's environmental controls. ODST Ballistic Battle suits were semi-powered, unlike MJOLNIR armor, so the range of functions was more limited, but the armor's internal temperature could be manipulated within reason. Frostbite was not unknown in UNSC arctic operations.

Her pack and weapons secure, Paxton turned around to see Private Khayalkov walking away from his pod, MA5C rifle in hand and a- noticeably smaller- field pack strapped to his back. The standard-issue M6 sidearm lay in its holster on his right thigh.

"You ready, trooper?" she asked the Russian ODST.

The private gave her a quick thumbs-up.

Paxton activated the NAV tracker in her helmet, turning in the direction of the coordinates she'd given her troops, which should, hopefully, lead them to the entrance of ONI's Castle Base. The distance marker read thirteen kilometers, and upon seeing the small green number, she sighed, and began trekking.


	16. Chapter 15: The Coin Drops

Author's Note: Well, I'm back, and so is Shattered Glass. There have also been revisions in previous chapters to make things flow a little more smoothly, so familiarize yourselves with those if you want. Feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy, folks!

-Rookie-

**

* * *

CHAPTER XV**

**0253 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**EXTERIOR OF UNSC CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Seven Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, their black armor encrusted with ice and snow, trudged through half-meter deep snow towards their destination, a small but growing congregation of humans, who were gathering and setting up makeshift camps and defensive positions at the mouth of a half-collapsed tunnel.

As they holstered their weapons and got their equipment defrosted, the trooper at the head of the group, a heavily-built Lieutenant, asked a nearby trooper, "Where's Major Paxton, Private?"

The private shrugged. "Messages from the field say she's still en route, sir."

The lieutenant nodded. "So who's in charge of the camp?"

"Sergeant Brakes," came the instant reply, "but it's rocky- he and El-Cee Sanderson have been hashin' it out for goin' on a half-hour now therabouts."

The older Helljumper's head tilted, and behind his faceplate, an eyebrow crawled upwards. "El-Cee _who_?"

Another shrug. "Lieutenant Commander Sanderson, sir. Some spook."

The sigh leaving the Lieutenant's lungs was like the Breath of Life itself. Of course it was a spook- who else inserted operatives into the middle of combat drops?

* * *

"All right, trooper," he told the junior ODST, "as you were." And with a nod to his six squadmates, he set off to find Sergeant Brakes and Lieutenant Commander Sanderson, whoever the hell they were.

Pyro wiped a film of ice crystals from the surface of his M7S submachine gun, as he half-listened to the verbal melee that was transpiring four meters away. The Silvers twins stood next to him, wistfully observing, a yawn punctuating their vigil every so often.

"I can't believe one of them hasn't already given up," Jill whispered to her brother.

Sketch's sigh was lost to the howling wind. "Sarge, give up? You and I must have joined different Squad Sevens," he replied, shaking his head. "The El-Cee should just shut up; make it easier for himself."

"Or wait until Sarge says something to get himself court-martialled," Pyro interjected, his sentence a discordant twang in the dialogue. Etch and Sketch both turned to look his way. Pyro sighed.

"At which point Sarge would probably kill the spook and make it look like an accident," he added, eliciting a snort of laughter from the twins.

"Now _that_ sounds like Sarge," Sketch commented, before holding up a finger to signal for quiet and turning back to the conversation.

"I have tactical command of this operation- the orders came straight from UNICOM brass on Earth," growled Brakes.

"And I understand that," replied the Lieutenant Commander with a sigh. "But I am declaring a Limon-Naxla exception to your operational authority, and commandeering a fire team of troopers to assist in a recovery mission."

"Oh no you don't- I don't even know what the hell a Limon-Naxla is. For all I know, you're bullshitting me. If you want to go on this mission, then fine! You'll have my blessing. But troopers? No way, no how, unless you point at the line in your exception that says you can do so. Capiche, spooky?"

"The Limon-Naxla data is classified! We didn't just go around broadcasting WINTER CONTINGENCY conditions to the Covenant during the war!"

"Could've fooled me," Brakes huffed. "If you're unwilling to show me the data, then you go alone. Simple as that."

The Lieutenant Commander's hands flexed for a second, as if to grab something, but the he turned on his heel and vanished into the camp. Pyro was fairly certain he heard him muttering under his breath, and what he heard wasn't exactly complimentary. It seemed odd to see Sanderson lose his temper- part of the whole image of the essential ONI spook was their complete nonchalance at everything. This seemed uncharacteristic. If he didn't know any better, he'd even have thought it unbecoming of ONI.

But he did know better. Despite public perception, ONI had suffered during the war too. Reach's destruction had been little short of a death blow to the group, and Section Three had been hit particularly hard. The ruins of Menachite Mountain and CASTLE Base, looming ominously over the ODST field headquarters, proved that. Sanderson was probably a replacement straight from OCS, green and untried, a Lieutenant Commander simply due to the voids that existed at the top- either that or politics.

Pyro smiled ruefully to himself. The UNSC's military was still in a very sorry state. Things weren't quite as bad as they'd been two years ago, just after the end of the Great War, but in comparison to its pre-war position, the combined military forces of the UNSC were pathetic. For proof, one needed look no further than the ODST units. Prior to the war, there were multiple ODST Special Forces divisions specializing in operations all over UNSC space. Now, there was only one unit left- the 105th Division. On paper, the division was over-strength, but the eight 'battalions' that made it up were severely under-manned. Paxton's contingent on Reach, almost two hundred troopers, technically composed half a battalion.

Short of the Spartans, Pyro couldn't think of a group that had suffered worse.

His thoughts were interrupted by a fire team of Helljumpers who made their way up to Brakes. The leader of the group, a gruff Lieutenant with a Chemical/Biological/Nuclear Remote sensor attached to his helmet and a voice that sounded like it could stop bullets, addressed the Master Sergeant, his message clear.

"You Brakes or Sanderson?"

"Lieutenant. A pleasure. Master Sergeant Brakes, _sir_."

"Don't get cute. What's the deal here?"

"We wait for Paxton and the rest of the crew, and then flush this base out like a nuclear-powered toilet. After that, we blow what's left of the place to hell. Any prisoners we have we'll interrogate."

"And until then, _you're_ in charge?"

"Your confidence is inspiring. _Yes_, _sir_, I am in charge, unless you know better than HIGHCOM."

Pyro knew as well as any Marine did that size didn't matter much in a fight, but he kept getting the feeling that it wasn't HIGHCOM's mission that protected Brakes as he spoke with the Lieutenant. The Master Sergeant towered over most of the officer's squad- the tallest of the group only reached Sixes' brow-plate. Several decades of field experience probably didn't hurt either, and even the greenest trainee could have picked Brakes out as a veteran.

Pyro sighed as he set his M7S down next to him. He fought the urge to pace- there had to be _something_ he could do until the Major arrived. He wasn't sure if he preferred the waiting or the combat- sure, he wasn't at risk of dying right away while out of combat, but at least he knew what to _do_ in a fight. Shoot, not get shot, keep moving, stay alive. Now, though... Pyro stood up and walked towards what passed for the camp's comm station, which at this point, was simply a small dish and console. A single trooper with her helmet off manned the post.

"Anything from upstairs?" Pyro asked.

"Not a peep," the trooper sighed. "Last communique is several hours old at best. Most of the battle group has left the system, but the Rear Admiral stayed back to cover the retreat."

"Pfft. The Navy and their bloody heroes..." Pyro muttered.

"You got that right," the female trooper replied with a dark chuckle. "So long as we're not on them, huh?"

Pyro laughed. "Guess not... say, whose unit are you in?"

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. The ghost of a smile the woman had been wearing disappeared. She reached towards her neck and pulled out a chain. Hung on the chain, suspended next to her metal dog tags, was a small gold ring.

"Don't even try it," she told him.

Pyro sighed. "Wasn't going to, but thanks for the heads-up. Seriously- who's your NCO?"

She eyed him suspiciously for several seconds before answering. "I was in Buck's unit, but then he got a field commission to El-Tee, and shortly after that I got reassigned. So, right now... Gunny Missel."

Pyro registered roughly one word of the entire answer. "You were in Buck's unit? _The _Buck?"

She looked at him with a slight air of exasperation. "Yes. The one and only Edward Buck, or Gunny, as everyone else liked to call him. I never got the hang of that- everyone would look at me funny if I said it. Even the team's last rookie didn't seem convinced."

"After a war that almost annihilated our species, can you blame them?" Pyro asked, only half-serious. When he was met with a cocked eyebrow, he sighed. "Two out of four on my team are replacements. Twins."

"Let me guess... Etch and Sketch?"

"You heard, I suppose?" As the female trooper rolled her eyes and opened her mouth, Pyro nodded and held up a hand. "Yeah, you heard."

She closed her mouth and smiled. "So that must make you either Sergeant Brakes or Corporal Heidler. Since Brakes is like the Olympic Tower on legs, though, I'd say you were the corporal."

"Pyro," Pyro replied, and held out his hand.

"Cara Livetz- 'Hammer' to my team." When Pyro tilted his head, she pointed at the Spartan laser next to the communications console.

"An infantryman's Judgment Day," she announced.

"Remind me not to offend you," Pyro said with a chuckle, withdrawing his hand.

At that moment, there was a crackle on one of the console's speakers, and a voice coalesced from the scattered noise.

"All units, this is Major Paxton, I have a visual on a structure near the rendezvous point, approach?"

Livetz put her hand to a switch on the console and replied, "Copy, ma'am! Structure is friendly, safe to approach. Welcome to Camp Blizzard, Major!"

"Identify yourself, trooper!" Pyro rolled his eyes- one of the things about fighting Insurrectionists was the level of near-paranoia it inspired in people. Probably the best thing about fighting the Covenant- if anything could be said in that regard- was that the aliens were not subtle. They certainly did employ trickery from time to time, but it wasn't their forte.

Now that humans were fighting humans again, things got more... complicated.

"Private Livetz, Trooper ID 22494-00106-CL, Echo Two-Three, ma'am!"

There was a pause. Pyro frowned- was Paxton honestly checking Livetz against the UNSC databases in a _blizzard_? Was that even possible? Could a signal even penetrate the upper atmosphere in these conditions?

"All right, trooper, you check out. On my way in, Paxton out."

_Guess that answers my question_, Pyro thought. As Livetz killed the channel, Pyro turned around to leave.

"Leaving already?"

Pyro stopped, but didn't turn.

"Yeah," he replied. "Sarge'll want to know about Paxton's arrival."

Livetz shrugged. "All right then. Say hi to Etch and Sketch. Damn lucky, those two are."

"I'll mention it." And with that, Pyro set out.

He found the rest of his team where he had left them. Sketch was fine-tuning the scope on a newly-acquired sniper rifle, and Etch was sleeping quietly. Brakes, on the other hand, looked like a pendulum as he walked back and forth across the base entrance, directing the troopers nearby. Pyro walked up to the Master Sergeant.

"Paxton's just about here," he told his NCO quietly.

"Good," Brakes muttered. "I've about had it with this..."

"The waiting?" Pyro asked.

"Heh- that and being on top. Apparently 'CO' means 'problem-solver' to the rank-and-file. Paxton can have her battalion."

Pyro nodded. "Glad you're not going, sir. Etch and Sketch would be lost without you."

Brakes chuckled. "They'll go a long way. At least they don't have imminent death standing in the way of advancement."

It was just then that there was a low rumble in the ground. Pyro felt it as a slight shift beneath his feet, but wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Feel that?" He whispered.

Brakes nodded. "Yeah. What the-"

For roughly a second, the shaking built to the sounds of _booms _and _clangs_ as the ground split. Then, with a titanic roar, a ship clove the ground above it in two. It was silver with blue lines running across it, and was shaped vaguely like an axe blade, seeming to cut the space around it as it ascended into the atmosphere. Pyro stared at the spectacle in blank shock, but somewhere off, he could hear someone yelling into a comms console.

"Battle Group Acheron, this is First Battalion! We have an unidentified vessel en route through the atmosphere! Respond, respond! Is anybody out there?" Battle Group Acheron, RESPOND!"


	17. Chapter 16: Shatter the Heavens

**CHAPTER XVI**

**0024 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONBOARD PROWLER UNSC **_**NIGHTHAWK**_**, HIGH ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

One Archer missile slammed into a rebel ship, blasting apart the armor at the point of contact. As air and bodies bled out the hole, a blue spot appeared in one of the breached compartments. After the barest of instants, it melted its way through the ship's interior and reached the reactor. The resulting explosion annihilated the Insurrectionist vessel.

"Confirmed pulse laser hit, sir."

Weller nodded- unnecessary though the comment had been, it had helped just to know that he hadn't imagined it. "Get damage control teams to their posts, and prepare to fire again."

"Yes sir. Firing- Archer missile away."

The Archer missile impacted a starboard thruster node on another rebel ship, this one an eight-hundred meter cruiser. The ship, which had been traveling in formation towards the _Acheron_, careened hard to port, the forces acting on it out of balance. The behemoth of a vessel collided with another rebel ship, this one a light vessel barely half its size- a frigate or corvette, by the looks of it. The smaller vessel was split into dozens of fragments before finally disintegrating in a globe of fire as its reactor went critical. The explosions rocked the larger ship, and life pods flitted desperately from the dying ship's hull as flames ate up the interior. After another second, the ship had disappeared, the only testament to its existence being smears of red and violet on _Nighthawk's _radiation scanners.

Weller blinked at the destruction. On its own, that strike wouldn't even have destroyed one ship, let alone two.

"Alert!" Lieutenant Yeats cried. "Rebel ships breaking formation, except one battle group- they've found us, sir!"

This was it. They would die- the only question was when. The longer it took, the more time the Rear Admiral had. It was her- and the mission's- only shot.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Weller ordered. "Ahead full on bearing zero three eight, declination zero five six!"

"Answering ahead full, sir!"

_Nighthawk_ tore after a rebel carrier at least a kilometer long. It was their best option- prowlers were severely underpowered in almost every department, and most other ships, while heavier, had the power to outrun them. Against a destroyer, they would have no chance, and even a cruiser was marginally faster. Carriers, though...

The UNSC prowler bore down on the larger ship, moving in close to its hull. As it did, though, alarms began to blare on the bridge, and Weller saw movement on the viewscreens linked to their hull cameras.

"Their defense turrets are warming up, sir. Plotting pulse laser solutions now."

"Make it fast..." Weller said, his teeth clenched. A ship's point defense guns were meant for use against fighters and missiles. Using them on a warship of any significant size was usually considered a bad joke. Usually. That amount of firepower would shred a prowler.

Without warning, glowing blue spots appeared on the carrier's turrets, just before melting through the armored shell, which preceded explosions rippling along the hull. As if in response, a hail of glowing yellow rounds streaked towards _Nighthawk_, tearing through what little armor she had.

"Hull breach, Deck Three! We've got fires in Oxygen Processing!" Lieutenant Yeats seemed ready to pass out.

"Get damage control down there NOW!" Weller yelled. "Commander, you coordinate damage control- if we can't save a section, space it!"

Commander Kagabe nodded. "Yes, sir!"

Turning to the rest of the crew, Weller took command again. "Weapons One- what's the count on those turrets?"

"Three left, sir," Warrant Officer Steel replied. "Firing solutions optimized- firing. Turret destroyed- two left. Working a firing solution..."

At that moment, the ship bucked like an out-of-control stallion, and Weller fell to the deck. "Report!" he ordered as he rose.

"They hit an auxiliary tritium tank! Venting that section now, but we can't take much more of this!"

Weller growled at himself. Prowlers had been designed for stealth, not combat. It had seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago, but still- _why _had he decided to take the ship into a fight?

_Nighthawk's _pulse laser fired twice more, destroying the last two turrets that could fire at the prowler. Alarms continued to blare, though, and nobody felt relieved about their reprieve. It would be brief, at best.

"What's our damage?" Weller asked.

"Main reactor's down to sixty-seven percent, sir- we'll push the auxiliaries to compensate. Crew count is thirteen dead, five injured. Our stealth ability is compromised."

Weller sighed. Things could have been a whole lot worse. He looked over to the sensor screens. Six rebel ships were forming up around the carrier, but were holding their fire.

They were pinned.

"Damn lucky," he muttered before turning to his executive officer. "Get repairs underway as quickly as you can- we've caught a break for now."

Weller got the feeling that the rebels might have heard his statement- their next move certainly made it seem that way.

"Rebel carrier is rolling! They're presenting their port flank!"

"DAMN!" Weller cried, not caring that his crew now stared, mouths open and eyes wide, at their captain. "Evasive maneuvers! Initiate roll of one eight zero degrees! Weapons One, get me a firing solution for our pulse laser on their Archer pods ASAP."

A slightly stunned silence ensued, after which the crew at the weapons station scrambled to coordinate their actions with _Nighthawk'_s AI. Weller watched the main viewscreen as the universe was turned on its head. As he examined the rebel carrier, metallic flaps along its hull were withdrawn, exposing hundreds of high-explosive warheads.

"What's the ETA on that firing solution?" he demanded.

"Calculated!" someone yelled over from the weapons console.

"FIRE!" Weller yelled, his voice a thunderclap in the enclosed space of the prowler's bridge.

The tiny ship's pulse laser flashed once, and a blue spot appeared on one of the hundreds of missiles in the carrier's launch pods for just an instant- before what seemed like the ship's entire flank burst into flame. Detonations chained across the length of the Archer pods, extending into space and into the compartments nearest the missile pods. Unable to hold in the rushing, roiling, burning air, armor plates covering at least a third of the ship's length buckled outwards and split, hurling doomed crewmen and pieces of the ship into the void. It only lasted a few seconds, though- the fires were soon extinguished, and the torrent of bodies and verdigris soon stopped.

"Smart," Weller muttered, thinking about the rebel captain. Hundreds were likely dead. But the ship was safe, at least for the moment. And _Nighthawk _stillhad a problem.

"Detecting magnetic fields from the rebel battle group, sir..."

Weller pinched the bridge of his nose- it was all just noise. They were dead. Sheer luck and timing had saved them from one rebel ship. Nothing could save _Nighthawk_ from a MAC round.

"SIR! Hawking radiation spike! Asymmetrical profiles- Slipspace fields deconvoluting all around us!"

The tears in space tossed _Nighthawk_'s bridge crew around like leaves in a hurricane, sending them slamming into the walls or the floor as the ship itself was thrown away from the site of the rupture. As Weller recovered and looked up at one of the few cameras not fried by the radiation, he saw- chaos.

What had once been uncontested space was now a battleground for the rebel fleet and over seventy scattered UNSC ships, several still adrift from the recent transition to 'real' space. Missile trails and flashes of MAC blasts lit the inky void as the surprised Insurrectionists tried to down as many vessels of the incoming UNSC fleet as they could. They had the advantage of concentrated force- UNSC Slipspace drives, while a generation more advanced than the old Shaw-Fujikawa engines thanks to technical innovations gleaned from Elite ships following the Great War's end, were still somewhat imprecise. The UNSC fleet had been scattered all over Reach's Lagrange points, and a number were even stuck in the upper atmosphere.

Explosions rippled across the night as the rebels pounded the new arrivals with explosives and shells, and light answered light as those UNSC ships unlucky enough to be caught in the middle of rebel formations desperately struck back. Longswords flitted out of fighter bays to meet the incoming swarm of rebel single ships, and scattered nuclear detonations claimed entire ships and the souls aboard them, showering the void with globes of white gold.

To their credit, the rebels managed to destroy over two dozen ships before the UNSC ships regrouped and launched a counter-strike. Dozens of MAC rounds ripped into the rebel fleet, tearing through their formation. The now-outnumbered rebels broke off, making a beeline towards Csodasarvas. The UNSC forces, already bloodied, did not pursue.

Weller stared at the viewscreens, stunned. No words could describe how lucky he and his ship's crew were. Had the reinforcements come even a few seconds later, _Nighthawk_ would just have been so much molten slag and flash-boiling coolant. His breathing came shallow and fast, and his heart was hammering out a rhythm that put the Turkish March to shame.

The bridge was quiet for a solid minute. Apparently unable to take it any longer, Commander Kagabe cleared his throat.

"Reports of the wounded coming in now, sir."

Weller nodded, still slightly dazed. But then his exec's words sunk in. "Have the med-bay prepped to receive them," he ordered. "Meanwhile, chart us a course for that battle group. Comms One, I want a channel with whoever's commanding that fleet. Let's get a move-on, people."

As the comms channel was opened...

"_Nighthawk_, this is Captain von Kirche of-"

"-Captain Ishigama commanding UNSC _Thunder's Fist_-"

"Commander Jimassa here-"

"-UNSC _Trajan _of Battle Group Kilo, pursuing a rebel fleet-"

"-pursued them through Slipspace for four days-"

"Close the channels!" Weller yelled. The cacophony of sound ceased. Not two seconds later-

"Multiple ships hailing us, sir," Lieutenant Yeats reported.

"They want to know why we cut contact."

"Damn it all..." the captain muttered. He let out a long, _long_ sigh before breathing normally again. "Broadcast on an open channel to all ships in range- they can defer to Admiral Mores now. Transmit and then terminate, understood?"

"Understood, sir. Transmitting now."

Yeats delivered his message to the fleet, but Weller barely listened. His ship's unbelievable luck still shook him, and he knew just how fragile the situation still was. The UNSC fleet did outnumber the rebels, but in their current state.

Weller prayed that the rebels didn't know what he did.

_Nighthawk_'s bridge was mostly silent for several minutes. With the exception of a crew member reporting to the XO every so often, the men and women on board focused mainly on getting the ship back up to speed after the battle that no prowler had ever been built to fight.

"Incoming from the Rear Admiral, sir."

Weller sighed. Silence had been too good to last. "Patch it through," he ordered as he straightened both his posture and his face.

Rear Admiral Mores' holographic head, a blue pixelated representation of the human speaking into the communicator, did not look happy, to put it one way.

"Captain."

"Ma'am."

"I've assumed tactical command of the battle group. This group was previously seven separate fleets, all part of CLEANUP. ODST complements just like the one you dropped were sent in, but there was a foul-up somewhere along the line. The rebels' departure and arrival here was all coordinated."

Weller simply blinked. This had all been planned? _How?_ his inner self was screaming. But on the outside, he had to remain calm. If a commanding officer wasn't collected, what right did his crew have not to panic?

"Orders, ma'am?" he asked.

"We'll form a blockade and keep the rebels from trying anything funny. You keep in touch with our ODST forces planet-side. If those Helljumpers identify a threat to this fleet, captain, inform me _immediately,_ and damn the black ink if you do, understood?"

"Understood, ma'am. _Nighthawk_ Actual out."

Mores nodded and the hologram of her head disappeared.

Weller turned away from the projector. "Commander, you have the deck. I'll be at Comms One."

"Sir."

Weller rose from the commanding officer's chair and over to the communications station. Lieutenant Yeats rose and began to salute, but Weller stopped him.

"At ease," he said softly. "I'll head up Comms One for now, Lieutenant. You're relieved."

Yeats' eyes widened, and he gulped. "But- sir, I-"

Weller put a hand on the younger officer's shoulder. "You did fine, Lieutenant. I'll just be personally overseeing this, that's all. Get some rest. You look like you've seen a Covie ghost."

Shaking slightly now, Yeats nodded. "Yes, sir..." He then began to leave the bridge- slowly, it had to be said.

"Permission to speak?" a young petty officer asked as the captain sat down. Weller waited until the bridge doors slid shut before answering.

"Granted."

"The Lieutenant looked fine to me, sir."

"He needed to know that I wasn't relieving him because of incompetence or anything of that sort."

"Understood, sir." The petty officer looked away, not looking entirely convinced.

* * *

**0305 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ONBOARD PROWLER UNSC **_**NIGHTHAWK**_**, HIGH ORBIT OVER PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"Incoming signal from the surface, sir. It's pulse-coded. Reads: Romeo Charlie Three Four Three. Message ends, sir."

Weller nodded, understanding the signal indicating that the ODST companies had rendezvoused at Castle Base. He then turned to the console he sat at, adjusting the frequency of the ship's single-beam communicator. In order to penetrate the severe- albeit now-lightening- storms on Reach's surface, _Nighthawk_ had needed to shift its signal to a higher frequency. For communications in space, such measures were unnecessary.

His finger was a second from the 'Transmit' switch when-

"Sir! Radiation and heat signatures from the surface!" came the call from Sensors Station One.

At the same time, someone was frantically yelling on an open channel.

"Battle Group Acheron, this- First Battalion! We have an unidentified vessel- through the atmosphere! Respond, respond! - anybody out there? Battle Group Acheron, RESPOND!"

"Sir! Large mass approaching from planet-side! ETA at current velocity one minute!"

Weller's breathing stopped. No _large mass_ could exit a planet's atmosphere and gravity well in a minute. Human ships couldn't, and even Covenant ships needed a while to make the burn out of orbit. Weller hit the transmit switch.

"_Acheron_, this is _Nighthawk_. Ground force has detected a large object coming up from the surface, ETA under one minute, over!"

"_Nighthawk,_ _Acheron. _We're going to need a little more data than that, over."

"Get me a sensor profile!" Weller yelled.

"Length, two hundred thirty-two meters stem to stern! Height, six hundred ninety five meters! Width, one hundred and two meters!"

Weller froze for half an instant- he'd seen every class and model of UNSC ship, and more than a few Covenant vessels in his day, but never had he even heard of a ship with dimensions like this. But he hazarded a guess and turned to his console.

"Dimensions equivalent to UNSC medium-weight vessel, recommend we intercept, over," Weller reported.

"Acknowledged, _Nighthawk_. We'll have ships ready. _Acheron _out."

As Weller watched the viewscreen, five UNSC ships- two corvettes, a frigate and two destroyers- pulled from their holding positions over Reach, positioning themselves to intercept the rising vessel. When he looked at the cameras pointed planet-side, he saw a curious sight. A growing black speck- most likely their incoming ship- was rising out of a break in the clouds. Only- this break wasn't a natural one. The ship was rising out of a huge, perfectly round hole in the clouds. The hairs on Weller's neck stood on end.

"Thirty seconds before it meets our perimeter..." a voice said. Weller didn't really pay attention. Instead, he stared, transfixed, at the glowing size and detail of the vessel moving towards them. It became clear that it was gray, not black, and blue motes of light shone all over the ship.

"This is UNSC destroyer _Typhon_ to flagship _Acheron_, our weapons are hot, permission to engage, over."

"_Acheron _Actual here- crush that ship."

"Gladly."

Three flashes illuminated the UNSC ships, followed a split second thereafter by two more flashes as the MAC-carrying UNSC ships opened fire. Half a breath later, Archer missiles flew, by the hundred, towards the rapidly-approaching strange ship. The MAC rounds struck first, filling the void with fire and light as they slammed into the vessel. Clouds of flash-boiled metal swirled around the hostile vessel just as the Archer missiles struck, laying another blanket of fire over the rebel-commandeered vessel, which Weller could now clearly see had a shape vaguely reminiscent of blade. The smoke, fire and debris quickly evaporated in the vacuum. Weller gaped.

The UNSC might as well have radioed curses to the ship- there was not a scratch on its hull. As it drew closer to the ships that had just attacked it, Weller's stomach dropped.

Four brilliant indigo beams flew from the silver ship, intersecting all the attacking UNSC ships save the lone frigate in the group. As the beam moved along the unfortunate attackers, the vessels exploded. Every bulkhead, airlock and window burst outwards in a cascade of flames, deck by deck, section by section, like a row of incendiary dominoes. After less than a second, the work was finished. Four blackened, disintegrating husks floated aimlessly through space, the odd fire burning pathetically as it gasped for rapidly-dissipating sustenance. The lone frigate, still defiant, unleashed another MAC round at the silver-and-blue ship. The results were similar to the first, only this time, a silvery-white layer shimmered over the surface of the strange ship.

"Shields," Weller whispered, spitting the word out like a curse. But it wasn't over. Portions of the shimmering skin seemed to peel away from the hull, and formed into a hundred-meter-long needle, still silvery white in color. But the needle started to glow red, and then white. It wasn't energy.

"That's metal..." the terrified whisper carried across _Nighthawk_'s bridge.

The thin metal lanced danced back and forth before finally plunging into the doomed frigate, erupting from the ship's hull every second or so, the exit wounds belching flames, metal and corpses. Over the course of five seconds, the advanced warship cut the frigate to incinerated ribbons with its own MAC round.

Weller wanted to stop this- to do _something_ to stop the carnage. But fear- pure, abject horror- rooted him to the spot. This couldn't be happening. It just- _couldn't_. How could a ship _do_ all that? Shrug off enough force to flatten a continent, and then cut a ship to pieces with its own weapons? No ship existed that could do that. And yet- this just had done just that.

The UNSC was the supreme space naval power in its territory. Or at least- it had been. For a certain UNSC captain, there was no disputing the things he was seeing now.

On the main viewscreen, Weller saw two cruisers- one venerable _Marathon_-class vessel and one of the brand-new _Myrmidon_-class ships- break formation and begin to pursue their newfound nemesis. The older cruiser let off two MAC rounds, which simply disappeared in a storm of flames against a film of silver shields. But its counterpart hung back as points along its hull glowed bright white. Three plasma torpedoes streaked towards the axe-shaped ship. As they traveled, gold sparks flew through the void as the second cruiser added its three MACs to the assault. The quintet of hyper-accelerated slugs impacted just ahead of the plasma torpedoes, and a very tiny portion of the universe burned, blinding-hot, for the briefest of instants. But as the fire subsided, the relentless juggernaut coasted ahead, finally slipping into a tiny, neat Slipspace rupture. The two cruisers pursuing it hung for a moment, the focus of their fury suddenly gone.

Nobody on the prowler UNSC _Nighthawk_ breathed for what seemed like a good minute. The comm console buzzed conspicuously for several seconds before someone finally answered it. Rear Admiral Mores looked furious. While every instinct screamed at him to order an immediate Slipspace jump, Weller stood up and walked over to face his flag officer's hologram.

"Captain, I know that the Prowler fleet is ONI's little loaner to FLEETCOM. I also wasn't in Voi when the little storm there brewed over, so I'll make a guess, and you'll answer my question. How the hell did Insurrectionists living in Reach's corpse get Forerunner ships?"


	18. Chapter 17: An Order and a Query

**CHAPTER XVII**

**0313 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**ORBITAL DROP SHOCK TROOPER BASE- DESIGNATION 'CAMP BLIZZARD'- ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

Pyro shook the blur from his vision as he searched around for this helmet. When his hands met the familiar titanium-steel shell, he upended it, clearing ice and rock dust from its interior before slipping it on. As he looked up, chaos greeted him with a cheery wave. Electrical fires burned in brazen defiance of the abating storm. ODST personnel staggered through the remnants of their camp, which had been tossed around like so much sand in a gale. Medics in full combat armor were enlisting anyone who could walk to help them treat injuries caused by the micro-earthquake the Forerunner ship's exit had created. And to top it all off...

"Ground forces, this is Captain Weller, UNSC _Nighthawk_. Any forces receiving this, acknowledge immediately. I repeat- any forces receiving this, acknowledge immediately."

"_Shit_," Pyro snapped under his breath. He tapped his helmet communicator and tried answering.

"This is UNSC MIL-ID 28112-09036-KH, Corporal Heidler. _Nighthawk_, what's going on up there?"

No answer.

"_Nighthawk_, come in. Hello?"

Silence answered him. Pyro swore under his breath. It had been a long shot to assume his helmet radio would work, but still...

He did have more pressing concerns. He turned and ran back towards his team, helping a stirring Sergeant Brakes back to his feet and moving stray fragments of verdigris off etch and Sketch. As Squad Seven got to their feet, Pyro's helmet radio flashed with static briefly.

"Any surviving UNSC forces in the Menachite operations zone, stand to and proceed immediately into CASTLE Base. Your objective is the retrieval of a Section Three asset, an ONI operator. Retrieval is Priority One, dead or alive. _Nighthawk_ out."

A small green rectangle appeared in Pyro's heads-up display. He blinked twice rapidly, and the rectangle swelled to occupy a quarter of the display, showing Lieutenant Fehling's face and basic profile. He sighed. Sketch, on the other hand, swore furiously, tearing off his helmet and hurling it into the ground.

"What the hell! She was supposed to be our _support_, damn it!To hell with this ONI _bullshit_!"

Brakes sighed. "You done, kid? We've got stuff to do, and it'd be good if you don't bitch about it."

Sketch glared at his Sergeant. "This was supposed to be SIMPLE! Get in, get out, and let the Fleet deal with the rest. But look at where we are, what we're doing. LOOK AT IT, BRAKES! Is THIS what we were supposed to get after fighting the Covenant? Surviving genocide is a license to clusterfuck ourselves? I SAW the Covenant glass Manassas! This kind of thing is supposed to be OVER! Fuck this!"

Brakes grabbed Sketch by the front of his armor. "Listen here- I _fought_ on Reach, okay? My _family_ died on Reach, just like yours. I've seen a dozen worlds die, and while you were doing S-2's little publicity stunt in New York, I was turning down retirement suggestions. Whatever you think is bad, I've seen worse. _Get over yourself_ and get your head _in the fight_." Brakes shoved Sketch back, and the younger Helljumper stumbled back a step before regaining his footing.

Pyro put an hand on Brakes and another on Sketch, physically keeping the two separate, although he strained against Sketch, keeping his teammate from bull-rushing their NCO. "C'mon, Sarge. Now's not the time to go Grandpa on us. Sketch- Sarge has experience, and it's saved our asses a bunch of times. Without him, we'd be seven kinds of fucked right now. Ease up, both of you."

Brakes took a deep breath. "You two," he said, pointing at the twins, "find a working comm relay- we're squawking at deaf ears here. Pyro, round up every last SOB that can still stand and have them rendezvous at the base entrance. We're going in fifteen. Troopers, move!"

Pyro hurried off, rushing from one cluster of ODSTs to the next and giving them the rendezvous location. He avoided medics, and any troopers that were assisting them in treating their charges. After roughly a quarter of an hour, he'd rounded up what felt like at least sixty, although Pyro wasn't entirely certain. He picked up several more ammunition clips for his weapons en route to the cave mouth entrance to Castle Base.

When he got there, Brakes stood in front of the troopers he'd gathered. His helmet was tucked underneath his arm, and his weapons rested at his side.

"We're going in to extract an ONI agent. We don't know where in the base we'll find 'em, or if the target is living or dead. We can't guarantee long-range comms underground, so when you get down there, _stay with your team_. If you're not part of one, get one. Now move out!"

Pyro moved up next to Brakes. "Like playing the big boss?" he asked, half-smirking, over a private channel.

"Cut the jokes and focus," was all his superior would say.

There was a crackle of static.

"Away team, this is Surface-Seven-Three, do you copy?"

"Etch?" Brakes asked. "You found a transmitter?"

"Affirmative, sir. Sketch is helping out a medic up here- the comm trooper was injured. There's a scanner up here too- I'll give you alerts as they appear."

"Keep me posted. Brakes out."

The group of ODSTs soon reached a junction- a path led off to their right, but the main corridor continued further into the base.

"All Charlie teams, take the detour." A dozen or so troopers obeyed the order.

As the group descended further and further, more and more ODSTs departed the main group. Before too long, it was just Pyro and Brakes, near the very bottom of the base.

"Great..." Pyro said with a sigh. "Just us two. I'm lonely already."

Brakes shook his head before tapping the side of his helmet. "Surface, this is Sixes, come in, over. Surface, come in. Does anyone copy this message? Come in!" Brakes gave up. "Crap. Looks like we're on our own," he said, without a microphone this time.

"Then on we go," Pyro suggested, shrugging.

The duo walked in utter silence, save for the rhythmic _tap-tap-tap_ of their boots on the titanium floors of Castle Base. At first, enough light filtered down from the surface and from the remaining rebel lighting equipment that they could see unassisted, but then they had to activate their VISR scopes in their visors. As it got even darker, Pyro activated his suit's flashlight, and a second circle of light told him Brakes had done the same. Even so, Pyro had to strain to look around- it was as if the corridors were swallowing the light.

Pyro sighed- out of apprehension this time- his breath sounding uncharacteristically loud, with nothing challenging its dominance in his eardrums. Then it hit him.

"Hey," he whispered over TEAMCOM, "Sarge- we're not making any noise."

"What?" Brakes asked, stopping abruptly. "You're talking- _that's_ noise."

"No," Pyro put a finger up, "look."

Pyro tapped his foot on the floor. True enough, it made no sound at all. He tried bringing his foot down with more force. There was an impact, and a _thump_, but it seemed muffled somehow, as though the impact had been lighter.

"That is really strange," was all Brakes would say. He pointed his flashlight at the walls and floors, looking around for some clue- UNSC titanium plate didn't dampen footsteps.

"There!" Pyro exclaimed, following Brakes' light trail. A small portion of the wall wasn't bare stone or metal or – whatever that material was- but it was different. It was a deeper black than anything Pyro had ever seen, and it seemed to extend into the wall, instead of acting as just a surface. In that black space was a pattern of blue lines, almost like circuitry in the walls.

"Definitely not ours," he remarked. "Covenant, maybe?"

"Can't be," Brakes answered. "They didn't find this place until a few years ago, and they didn't really build anything. They just attacked the planet, same as always."

"Well then, what _is_ this?" Pyro asked, more to himself than Brakes. He walked over to the wall and knelt in front of the dark section, peering closely into the dim blue luminescence.

"Probably nothing with answers. Come on, Pyro. Let's go. Weapons up and eyes open."

"Right behind you, Sarge." Pyro stood and checked the ammunition in his submachine gun. Satisfied, he looked around and realized something else.

"No dust," he murmured.

"What?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"There's no dust- either the metal does to dust what it does to sound, or something's maintaining this place."

Brakes' voice caught for a second. "Then- let's find it." His tightened grip and the fact that he drew his SMG closer in to his body screamed the exact opposite.

The pair advanced in silence for a few more minutes before the hallway widened to a large, wide-open room. The nearest three of the room's six walls were dimly illuminated by their flashlights, but the far three were cast in a barely-visible blue glow emanating from a hologram in the center of the room. Against the light was silhouetted a human-shaped figure. Pyro and Brakes leveled their weapons.

"Who goes there?" Brakes called out to the stranger, who wheeled around at the noise.

"Freeze!" Pyro yelled as he saw the figure briefly reach at something for its hip.

The two ODSTs slowly advanced on the hologram in the center of the room, keeping their weapons trained on the chamber's third occupant. As they got closer, features became clearer, both in the scant blue glow of the display and in the harsh white of Pyro's and Brakes' suit lights.

"Same armor the El-Tee was wearing," Pyro whispered over TEAMCOM.

"Could be a rebel who stole the armor," Brakes muttered back.

"You know this suit is tuned into your channel, right?"

Pyro almost jumped. "Lieutenant? That _is_ you, isn't it?"

"Affirmative, trooper."

Pyro relaxed, but Master Sergeant Brakes kept his weapon pointed at Fehling's head.

"I'll need a little visual proof," he said, unfazed.

The Lieutenant shrugged, pulling off her helmet and squinting against the white light.

"Could one of you point yours away, please?" she asked, putting one hand up to shield her eyes.

Pyro turned around and raised his SMG, covering the path he and Brakes had just come down. He tried to raise both _Nighthawk_ and the surface comm station, to no avail. They'd just have to backtrack until they were in range.

"What the hell are you doing down here, Lieutenant?" Brakes asked.

"The rebels used one of these tunnels as a launch area for that ship they had. This whole place is a giant alien complex, but this console over here was the first one I've come across."

Brakes snorted. "A giant alien structure that we never knew about, and we just built a base on top of it?"

Glancing back, Pyro saw that Fehling had crossed her arms. "ONI doesn't do anything by accident. Castle Base was built directly over this facility- we had to have known. My guess is we came up with some pretext for building it here. This must have been the real reason."

Brakes cleared his throat. "If you're ONI, shouldn't you know everything that went on?"

Pyro jumped as Fehling let out a derisive laugh. "Please. I may be Section Three, but we're talking about a group that accounted for at least half of ONI's budget throughout the war, and that's a conservative estimate. Most of the department's projects were covered in enough black ink to drown a man. I was a field ops agent- all I did was collect Covenant technology for the scientists back at locations like this."

"All right, all right, I get your point." Brakes turned to the pedestal in the center of the room that sported the blue hologram. "So what the hell is that?"

Pyro noted a pause. "Search me," Fehling eventually replied. "I only just arrived in the room. That display over there activated when I got close, but I haven't been able to investigate it yet."

"All right. You check it out. I'll cover you. Pyro!"

Pyro looked back. Brakes pointed back toward the entrance with two fingers. "Watch the approach."

"Sir," Pyro reported. _Well that was redundant_, he thought to himself. He adjusted his M7S' red dot sight before returning his attention to the room's only doorway.

After a few seconds, a low sound resonated through the walls and floor of the room. Fehling must have activated the holographic console. Nothing to worry about. The indistinct low low sound became an unrecognizable rumble though, and something else began moving, creating a scraping noise that sounded like it was coming from the very top of the room. Pyro glanced over his shoulder. What on earth was going on?

A hexagonal column had distended itself from the ceiling, reaching at least fifteen meters down from the room's high ceiling. After a sharp _swish_, two small covers at the end of the column moved aside, admitting a small, silvery object that flitted closer to the three humans near the ground. Pyro turned and focused his M7S on the object. As It drew closer, Pyro could make out more and more details. It was small, not much larger than an ODST helmet. It was in the shape of a cube with rounded corners, made of some silvery metal , and a circular opening in its casing emitted a soft white light. It came to rest roughly half a meter above Fehling's head, the lit circle pointing right down at her and Brakes, like a giant eye.

"Reclaimers!" the thing exclaimed in a sing-song metallic voice. "How may I be of service?"

Pyro's jaw dropped. All the same, he didn't miss Lieutenant Fehling cupping her faceplate with one hand and murmuring, "Aw, crap."

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait. There was a period where I thought I'd be deleting this piece and moving onto my on-hold project, but I've decided to see this through. As ever, enjoy!

-Rookie-


	19. Chapter 18: Just Ask

**CHAPTER XVIII**

**0527 HOURS, 20 JUNE 2555 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**UNIDENTIFIED COMPLEX UNDERNEATH ONI CASTLE BASE, PLANET REACH, EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM**

"Okay, so what the hell _is_ that thing?" Brakes asked after a few seconds' dumbstruck silence.

"I am Three-Two-Two Observant Scalar, the Monitor of this location: Facility Zero-Seven-Two."

With a long, long sigh, Fehling turned to the Sergeant. "It's an alien AI- ONI found a bunch on these huge ring constructs called the Halos. These things are beyond ancient- they've been around since we were crawling in the mud."

"Alien?" Brakes murmured. "Are we talking Covenant here?"  
Fehling scoffed. "I wish. No- these things predate Covenant both our and Covenant society by about a hundred thousand years. They were significantly more advanced than the Covenant ever were, but these AIs are all that remained of their culture."

"If the Reclaimer desires, I can provide directions to a more comprehensive archival facility," the small metallic voice chimed, but Pyro cut it off.

"Pipe down, light bulb. So El-Tee, what's the plan? Your friends at ONI interested in tiny annoying computers?"

Fehling shot him a glare that could have shattered glass, but Pyro didn't react- at least, it looked like he didn't. He murmured a silent word of thanks to the person who had the idea to make the ODST visor opaque.

Lieutenant Fehling turned to the Monitor. "You don't have a comprehensive record here?"

"Unfortunately, no," the Monitor's voice sounded more celebratory than apologetic, "my creators wisely decided to limit my access to secure information, in the event that this installation was overrun by the Flood."

Pyro's blood ran cold. He'd never actually fought against the Flood- thank goodness- but he'd seen several after-action reports from the Battle of Voi. There had been _something_ on a crashed Covenant ship here- a race of _things_- things that didn't flee when overmatched, things that seemed to exist only to crawl up to the next intelligent life form and take it over. Pyro had seen the videos of the beings- humans, Brutes, Elites, it didn't matter- taken over by the Flood, their hideous, twisted forms lashing out against their former friends and comrades, agonized and horror-struck expressions still stuck on their warped, distorted faces. He hadn't slept for weeks afterward, and that was just from _seeing_ them. Pyro shuddered slightly.

Observant Scalar plowed on. "However, Reclaimers, I do know where co-ordinates can be obtained for a more complete record."

"Okay, then," Brakes asked, speaking very slowly, "where?"

The Monitor spun on the spot, its 'eye' pointed at the center of the room. "That interface has a selection of interspatial routes to numerous installations my creators built."

"Interspatial routes?" Pyro didn't need- or want- to see Brakes' expression at that point.

"Slipspace," Fehling cut in. "Figures that other races would have other names for it." She turned to Observant Scalar. "Scalar- how do we activate the directory?"

The light in the metal casing dimmed slightly, pulsing brightly once after two seconds. "Did the Reclaimer not receive the directions given earlier?"

Fehling's tone hardened- noticeably. "What directions, Monitor? Who did you give them to?"

The floating cube tilted to one side ever so slightly. "The Reclaimers previously at this location. They commandeered a vessel for transport to the nearest Shield World. How do you not know this, Reclaimer?"

"Oh God, no..." Fehling whispered. Pyro's insides were reacting in much the same way. The Lieutenant returned her attention to the alien construct. "How much did they find out?" she asked of it, her voice sounding slightly queasy now.

"Everything that they accessed was recorded and cataloged. Their efficiency was quite remarkable, given their crude technology and archaic procedures." All of it was said in that same chiming voice, the tone of which suggested that the Insurrectionists had thrown a party. Pyro felt his breath leave him, and it was a while before it came back.

Fehling went back on the offensive. "Monitor- we weren't here when you gave the directions to the In- the other Reclaimers. How do you activate the directory?"

A small grey hologram of a strange symbol appeared in mid-air, an inexplicable three-dimensional silhouette. "This character activates the interface."

"Brakes," Fehling ordered. The master sergeant walked over and palmed the key with the symbol. Almost instantly, a display of the Milky Way, fully fifteen meters wide, appeared in the room. Pyro looked around, and all around his head and chest, there were tiny blue-white pinpricks. He backed away as far as he could to get a batter view of the stars.

"Scalar," Fehling asked, "does the interface accept native voice commands?"

"Affirmative, Reclaimer." The monitor sounded like a proud parent watching a child walking for the first time.

"Locate Shield Worlds." A round dozen systems then began flashing azure. Only two or three were even in the Orion arm of the galaxy, and among those, only one was near UNSC-controlled space.

"So, what _is_ a Shield World?" Pyro asked, turning to Observant Scalar.

"The final component of my creators' plan, Reclaimer. There were three parts- attack, defense and retreat. The Installations Zero-One through Zero-Seven, Installation Zero, and the Shield World Installations were the corresponding centers at which these efforts were concentrated."

"Then what was this place?"

"This location was a transportation facility, evacuated and placed under my supervision while the creators' plan was executed. I have failed, however." At this, the white light emanating from Scalar fell to barely a glimmer, and its eye pointed downward. Pyro's brows were knitted together. Was it... feeling shame?

"How did you fail, Scalar?"

As if the previous ten seconds had not just happened, Observant Scalar's eye rotated up to look directly at Fehling, its light returned to moderate brightness, and its voice seemed almost chipper once more. Almost.

"A spatial gravity-adjusting device was previously housed at this location. However, prior to my reinitialization, security was compromised. The device was taken before I was active."

"And when did all this happen?"

"Shortly after the aborted activation of Installation 04. In terms of the Reclaimer world, estimates range less than two full planetary revolutions."

"Great..." Pyro muttered. Humans had taken an alien device from this place just under two years ago. _That_ was specific.

Fehling actually took off her helmet now, which caused both Pyro and Brakes to raise their weapon and direct them towards the small floating cube. "Thank you for your help, Monitor. Would you mind assisting us further?"

"I shall render any assistance I can, Reclaimer."

"Could you come with us?"

The white light in Scalar's core seemed to grow brighter, and its eye, if anything, widened.

"No, Reclaimer, that is impossible! I am tasked to remain in this installation! I could not-"

"The installation is now empty and its purpose is void. You would do us a much greater service by coming along with us."

"no, no- my creators had a reason. I was created for this purpose- but I was created to assist the Reclaimers. Both are directives from the creators..." The monitor's voice was growing more and more frantic. Fehling sighed before reaching a hand into a pouch on her belt. Pulling out a small cylindrical canister, she set it on the ground as Scalar continued to gibber, its monologue now bordering on panicked.

"You may want to stand back," she cautioned Pyro and Brakes.

Pyro nodded and obliged, taking three steps back just for good measure.

With a _BANG, _flashes of light and a single arcing electric bolt, the cylinder vanished, leaving a slight blemish on the floor where it had been placed. Shortly afterwards, Scalar fell to the ground with an anticlimactic _thunk_. Fehling stepped forward and picked the AI up. Pyro wasn't sure, but he had his reasons to suspect that he and Brakes were blinking in rhythm at the situation.

"Let's get back to the surface. This thing will be more useful once we have it away from its home." The three of them fell into lockstep, leaving the room and preparing to ascend the complex.

"So..." Pyro said to nobody in particular (except maybe one) on their otherwise-silent hike, "what just happened?s"

Fehling, her helmet now off, smirked. "EMP grenade- meant for dispersing Covenant shields. Before that, they were meant to wreck enemy electronics. Had to remake them for tactical use, though. Taking out enemy shields without frying our own guys' tech was an absolute nightmare. They got it just right about fifteen years ago, or so I've heard."

Pyro frowned. "You're awful forthcoming with stuff."

Fehling just shrugged. "You'll be debriefed by Section Three about any and all classified material you've come into contact with, so a single mention's worth as much as a library. No harm done one way or another. You're Special Forces, after all. You've been through this mill before."  
"Fifty credits says you're the only spook in this system with that opinion..." Brakes muttered.

Their communications signal came back soon after a while. It was much clearer than it had been going down, and they soon made contact with the surface teams.

"Camp Blizzard, this is Brakes, we have the package, over."

The Silvers twins' voices were relieved. "Glad to hear from you, Sarge. The fleet's been calling every other minute- it's like having an overprotective mother," Etch said.

"Yeah... an overprotective mother who's pointing a hundred-odd MAC rounds at you," Sketch scoffed on the other line.

"You two can it!" Brakes snapped. "Tell the fleet to get us a Pelican- we've found something Naval Intelligence might like to look at."

"Let me guess... brain catalog? I don't mean to insinuate, but they're the Office of Naval _Intelligence _and all..."

"Can the stupid jokes, Sketch, and just call us a Pelican already."

"Wilco, Sarge. Surface-Seven-Three out."

* * *

Two hours and seven ONI agents later, Pyro, helmetless but otherwise in full armor, stood before a polished titanium door. Into its surface at eye level was carved 'Officer's Lounge'- otherwise, the portal was nondescript. Standing beside him were Etch, Sketch, Sergeant Brakes, Lieutenant Fehling, and Commander Sanderson. After a short pause, the door slid open. Sanderson entered first, and Fehling followed him. Then, one by one, Squad Seven entered the room. Pyro's eyes widened as he took in the view, and Sketch let out a low whistle, for which he received piercing glares from Sanderson and Brakes.

The room was a far cry from the rest of the ship- the walls were paneled with hardwood- whether real or imitation, Pyro couldn't tell- and the carpeted floors were colored a deep navy blue. Instead of the sterile fluorescent lighting present on the rest of the ship, the fluorescent lights in this room were shaped in imitation of old lamps, and under yellow filters, giving off an old-world ambiance to the whole setting. There was even a fully stocked bar. And to complete the image, there were six cushioned chairs situated around a modestly-sized round table slightly off to one side of the room, offset as they were by the presence of the bar. Two of the chairs were occupied. Pyro recognized Captain Weller of the _Nighthawk_, who nodded at the squad. His hands were clasped together, and his gaze passed from one person to the next, reading them all.

Pyro did not recall ever meeting the other person in the room, but he wasn't sure he really needed to. She was immaculately dressed in a standard gray officer's uniform, which was complete with two stars adorning her collar and epaulettes. Her short brown hair didn't really say much, especially when compared with her eyes. When they met Pyro's, they locked on for just a second, and it seemed as though the officer would like nothing better than to blast his head off his shoulders with that look. She then stood.

"Lieutenant Commander," she said coldly. "You've found your answers?"

Sanderson nodded. "Lieutenant Fehling here has the intelligence we need, ma'am."

The rear admiral's gaze shifted, but not to Fehling. Instead, she looked at Brakes, and then swept across Squad Seven. "Do they have clearance?"

Sanderson took a breath. "While they've had access to some of the material, they haven't been granted-" he was cut short when the rear admiral held up a hand.

"They can stay- if they've heard it, then they stay. We'll deal with the red tape later. Well, Lieutenant? What have you got?""

Fehling snapped off a salute. "Rear Admiral Mores, ma'am. The rebels must have located a-" she paused for a moment- "-a Forerunner structure, a transportation hub underneath Reach's surface. They've recorded information from an cartographic system inside the complex- they'll know the location of Forerunner structures in nearby systems, which widens their retreat options."

"We've chased them from their hiding places, Lieutenant," Mores retorted. "Every habitable system where the rebels were located were the subject of a raid by an ODST team much like the one you accompanied. They fled here. What I want to know, Lieutenant, is _why _they're here. Why Reach?"

Fehling cleared her throat. Pyro tried not to look too relieved as she did. Much as he felt for the Lieutenant, he was glad that Admiral Mores wasn't grilling _him_. The diminutive sigh he let out earned him half a second's attention from both Weller and Mores, but all eyes returned to Fehling once more.

"I can't say with certainty-"

"Then make an educated guess."

Fehling nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It's possible that the Insurrectionists found that reach was remotely habitable, and then proceeded to try and carve out a settlement, only finding the Forerunner technology later. Once they found it, it would have become their most important asset, hence why their ships came here- either to protect the Forerunner articles, or to make time for their safe removal."

Mores' eyes narrowed. "And what kind of technology is located on Reach, Lieutenant?"

"I haven't had the time to question my source, ma'am. It's only just come back online."

One of Mores' eyebrows shot up. "Source?"

"A Forerunner artificial intelligence. It had information on the complex, but refused to come with us, so I disabled it with an electromagnetic pulse. It restarted itself just as we were headed here."

The rear admiral rubbed the bridge of her nose and let out a long, hard sigh. "All right," she said at length, "we'll deal with Reach down the line. Where do you think the UIC forces are headed now, Lieutenant?"

Fehling sucked in a breath. "Zeta Doradus- there's- there was a planet in that system called Onyx."

"Was?" The question had come from Etch, not Mores. Sanderson glowered at her, but all eyes were fixed on Fehling, save Weller's.

"There was an incident there, reported by the crew of the prowler _Dusk_. The planet was literally destroyed by a huge mass of automated drones underneath its surface. The drones are likely to be Forerunner in origin. With possession of Forerunner maps and a Forerunner ship, I'd posit that's their destination, ma'am."

Mores nodded. "Finally, we're getting somewhere. All right. We'll leave a battle group in orbit over Reach and begin extracting whatever Forerunner technology we can. The rest of the fleet will make the jump to this Zeta Doradus system. You're sure about this?" For the first time, her gaze softened, reflecting concern and slight curiosity instead of irritation.

Fehling shrugged. "Even if we don't find the rebels, we'll find answers."

Mores scowled. "Fine. Captain, they're all yours. We'll transition to Slipspace within the hour. You're dismissed. Lieutenant Commander, you stay. I need a word."

Pyro and the rest of the squad left the room, with Fehling and Weller close behind. As soon as the door slid shut behind them, Pyro, Etch and Sketch let out simultaneous sighs of relief.

"Remind me never to make a career out of black ops," Etch said, mostly to herself. All the same, Pyro chuckled in assent.

Weller did not seem nearly as calm. "Are you ready for this next op, though? Section Three has labeled the Zeta Doradus region a strict no-approach zone. You'll be headed into the dragon's mouth."

"They don't have a choice." All eyes turned, once more, to Lieutenant Fehling. "There's no time to send for anyone else. We either move now, or not at all. The fleet's ODST complement are the only rapid-strike groups we have."

"Don't worry," Pyro replied. "Just give us a couple of days travel time out of cryo and we'll be ship-shape."

Etch and Sketch nodded in agreement, and even Brakes' shrug seemed more than half-hearted.

"So what can we expect," he asked.

"We'll deal with intelligence once it comes to the briefing," Weller said dismissively. "Right now, we have a strategy to organize, and you have a formal debriefing to attend once we're back on _Nighthawk_."

"I feel at home already," Pyro said, only half in jest.


End file.
